Shadowsight
by EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: The Raven and his Second are back for a new adventure as one reign ends, and a new one begins. There's a more detailed summary inside. Reviews are welcome - hope you enjoy!
1. Three are Two

**A/N:** Welcome back to my alternate universe! I left my trilogy open-ended, though I hadn't thought of where to take it. But then I decided to see what would happen if I took things on beyond the reign of Henry and into the Reign of Edward - and this tale was born.

To everyone who read, followed, favourited and/or reviewed my trilogy - this one's for you. Hope you continue to enjoy my retelling of historic events - reviews are most welcome.

As always, I own nothing here other than what came out of my own imagination.

* * *

Six years have passed since Lamashtu was destroyed, and both Thomas Cromwell and Richard Rich continue their work as Silver Sword and Second in the Court of Henry VIII. All is quiet, and their primary concern now is to ensure the safe succession of the Prince Edward as the factions gather in the twilight years of Henry's reign.

But something strange is happening, as Richard's bond with the Damask Blade starts to grow to a point beyond his ability to control. To make matters worse, it could not be more obvious that Thomas's age is beginning to tell against him, and he is no longer as capable a warrior as he once was.

And, as if that were not enough, the endless battling in the demonic realms as the higher-placed infernals seek to take England for their own has granted an opportunity to one of the darkest of their kind. Suddenly, not only do the Raven and his Second have to protect the Prince as he comes into his inheritance, but it seems that they must once again work to save the Kingdom from a powerful demon.

Whether they're ready or not.

* * *

 **PART ONE**

 **Twilight of the Lion**

Chapter One

 _Three are Two_

I am standing in the midst of a silent crowd; held to stillness by a raging voice that causes everyone to fear for their heads when it rises above the general hubbub of conversation in the Presence Chamber.

"And yet," the speaker cries stridently, "his most _duplicitous_ Imperial Majesty demands my aid against France? Regardless of his endless treachery towards me, damn him?"

How many times have I heard this throughout my career? I fear to attempt to count; for Henry, eighth of that name, makes, and withdraws, overtures to his continental neighbours with such frequency that he is hardly a fit man to complain when they do likewise to him. But then, how long has it been since we could say with certainty that his temper was truly stable? Of all the evils that I have faced, I think it is perhaps that deadly, unpredictable rage that is the most likely to end my tenure at Court - or even my life.

I suppose the truest irony is that this is now the greatest danger to the security of our Kingdom, for six years have passed since I watched the destruction of a deadly demoness at the hands of the man who stands beside me now - a rock of calm amidst the choppy nervousness of the assembled throng.

Sir Thomas Cromwell, Knight of the Garter, Earl of Essex and Lord Chancellor of England is, nonetheless pale. All of us know better than to dismiss a kingly temper tantrum; and perhaps none more so than he - for he is a member of that band of rare survivors; men who have been sent to the Tower, but who emerged with their lives. His reaction to Henry's anger is to remain silent and allow the tempest to run its course; it has served him well since his return to favour - and it is a lesson I have taken care to learn equally well.

There was a time when I hated this man - loathed him and wished to remove him so that I could advance my own career in his place. But then I drifted off to sleep at my desk, and woke to find him dying at my feet - and my decision to aid him changed my life forever. Back in those days, I was the hated Solicitor General; but now I am a Baron, and Lord Keeper of the King's Privy Seal - and the man I loathed is now the closest and truest friend that I have ever known.

Much has changed in the half-decade since we dispatched the demoness Lamashtu into nothingness - particularly the faces around us. That is the way of things, I suppose; new people arrive, old depart - either to their estates or to the grave. Those who remain seem more careworn nowadays - the burden of a world in which the bright star of its firmament is withering and growing dim; but does so with fits of violence that can even now sweep away one whom we all thought to be basking most warmly in its light. For a King who has not one, but two, sons to carry on his line, Henry remains fearful and suspicious of all, and sees plots where there are none. All are wary in their associations - but we are not blind: even now, factions are forming, ready for that moment when the sun goes dark, and a new one rises in its place. My concern, and Cromwell's, is to ensure that the people who stand at the head of Government when that dread moment comes are those who will ensure that only a royal hand holds power.

Those whose enmity we feared the most are no longer here to trouble us. The highest noble in the land, Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, is rarely present, though he is returning more frequently these days in hopes of obtaining influence over the Prince; while the rabidly obsessive Bishop of Winchester, Stephen Gardiner, has spent the intervening time tending to his flock - and, I'm told, has benefited greatly from this change in fortunes; to the point that he is far too busy engaging in altogether more charitable acts to be bothered with forcing people to the fire for heresy. The man that Cromwell loathed most of all, Thomas Boleyn, has also gone to his maker - and it was said at the time that the only mourners at his graveside were the ghosts of his children.

The Ambassadors are new faces too; gone is Castillon, replaced by the wily - but not too dishonourable - Charles de Marillac, while the Emperor is now represented by a doughy faced, stuffy Fleming: François van der Delft, following the retirement of our old sparring partner, Eustace Chapuys. Unlike his predecessor, van der Delft has not yet experienced the hottest of Henry's anger. His fortune, however, is that Henry is far too corpulent, and crippled, to grasp him by his lapels and shake him like a rat - as he used to do to Chapuys.

That, perhaps, is the greatest change of all. King Henry is not yet even close to his four score years and ten - but his health is becoming ever poorer as he continues to gorge himself upon endless streams of victuals and his girth expands ever more. Perhaps it is the pains in his legs that fires his raging appetite, for both are now bloated, ulcerated and reeking hideously - and the pain they bring him if he stands upon them for more than a brief time shortens his temper to such a degree that all who are near dread to be so. He can no longer walk far, and thus is transported in a great chair; while riding is equally difficult - though he is still able to do so, thanks to the gift of a fine Boulonnais horse from the King of France that is strong enough to carry him.

Even now, as he shouts furiously from his seat at the cowering ambassador, his face is a fearfully deep red, and he has broken out in a sweat. Standing beside him, one of his truest friends, Charles Brandon, remains silent - if sympathetic; for even he is not immune to an outburst such as this. There was only ever one man who did not fear these dread fits of temper; and he is long dead.

At length, Henry is finished shouting, and dismisses van der Delft, "Get out, damn you! Begone from my sight and be grateful that you are not sent to the Tower!" As the unfortunate man bows and makes a swift exit, the atmosphere seems to lighten a little, though the thick odour of suppurating flesh remains, as it always does nowadays. His complexion still deeply flushed, even though his temper has cooled, Henry is conversing with Suffolk as though nothing happened, and things around us return to normal - or at least as close to normal as can be expected in this place.

"Come, Mr Rich." Cromwell guides me to the side of the hall, maintaining his formality in public - even though we are now regarded somewhat as a David and Jonathan by all around us, "I have heard from an old friend. Tom is returning to Court for a brief time, and shall be with us within the week."

I am most pleased at this news. We have not seen Sir Thomas Wyatt now for nearly two years - for he is generally overseas on Diplomatic service. His most recent assignment was at the Court of the Iberian Union, where their newly crowned King, Miguel, holds court with his beloved wife, Maria - who was known to us until her marriage as the Lady Mary, "It shall be good to see him again." I agree.

In Wyatt's absence, we have missed him greatly for his friendship and humour - but equally, it shall be strange to see him, for we have not been required to take up weapons at all in the time since he left us last. Other than regular patrolling of the corridors, we have not hunted, nor have we fought, any kind of demon - and it as been as though our clandestine services are no longer required. How long _that_ shall last, I cannot begin to guess, but nonetheless, I think we both enjoy the respite.

As the evening draws to a close, I return to my quarters - altogether finer than those I once occupied before I rose to my present state - and spend a while seated by the fire in my chamber. Above, mounted on the overmantel, is my cherished sword - sitting quietly ready for a time when I require it once more. I still spar, of course - not to do so would be madness - but I do so with a wooden practice sword, or a less fine blade. A gift from Cromwell, it has saved my life, and his, many times - and it is the most precious thing I own. It seems so odd to me now that, after such adventures, we seem to have settled in to a comfortable retirement, and our mission now is to ensure that our next King gains his throne in peace.

The King might have his council, but there is another within the English Court - one of which he is entirely unaware. Presided over by his Queen, it is far smaller, but those who sit upon it are the most trusted in the Kingdom, and there is no room for factions as we work together to protect the interest of his heirs.

Like Queen Anne before her, Queen Jane was a Lady in Waiting who caught the eye of a dissatisfied King. Unlike Anne, and Katherine before her, Jane was saved from her husband's displeasure by one feat, and one alone: she bore him the sons he craved.

I think, had she done so, then Katherine would have remained Queen for the rest of her days; but the interference of Lamashtu in her pregnancies ensured that not one of the boys she bore lived - one stillborn, while two breathed long enough to become Henry, Duke of Cornwall - each in their turn - before departing from life as swiftly as they arrived. In killing the babes, Lamashtu killed King Henry's love with them, and the dark-haired, fiery young Anne was too great a temptation to resist.

Seven years it took to gain her hand - and even then the fight to settle the validity of that union took the lives of two good men. I still remember those times with shame, for I presided over the trial of one, and perjured myself to bring down the other. It is comforting to know that Thomas More forgave me for my crime - but still I cringe inside at times when I recall what I did. And, in the end, it was all for nothing - for Anne also failed to provide the son that she and her family promised. Coupled with her temper, it was a toxic mixture that proved to kill the marriage - and then the wife; for by that time Henry's eye had settled upon Jane, and her altogether calmer temperament was a balm to ease the fire.

Of course, by this time, we knew of Lamashtu, and I had taken my place at Cromwell's side. Thanks to her attempt to destroy us, we were obliged to bring Queen Jane into our secret, and so she became aware of the Mission to which Cromwell was pledged: to maintain the peace of the Kingdom, and defend it from the predations of demons. We did not know it at the time - but her involvement with our work was vital, and saved us all.

And now she presides over an inner circle of Courtiers dedicated to the safe transfer of power from her husband to her son. Despite our hopes - and the endless prayers we offer for the King in our daily devotions - none of us are fool enough to assume that the King shall live long enough to see Edward reach his majority; his health is precarious at best - and he seems far older than his actual years. Consequently, he refuses to countenance any suggestion that he might not live forever, and we all live in times where discussion of the succession is highly dangerous: for fear of losing our heads if we are overheard.

"It seems most strange to me that, despite the assurance that he has two sons to keep his name alive, his Majesty will not countenance discussion of that which must be considered for the future of the realm." Lord Hertford, the Queen's brother, merely expresses the concerns within all of us, and none of us know how to address them.

"He knows he is losing ground, brother." The Queen sighs, sadly, "Doctor Wendy has confided to me that his sleep is constantly interrupted, for he ceases to breathe for brief moments, and wakes. The only remedy is for him to sleep upon his side, but he ever rolls onto his back, and refuses to accept the presence of a bolster to prevent it. He also has great concerns that the ulcers upon my husband's legs are growing ever worse; for he still eats as though he were an active young man - even though he is not - and grows heavier."

Cromwell nods, "For a man keen not to die, his Majesty seems most determined to secure the opposite. But then, has he not ever been contrary at times? It may yet be that he shall survive - but we must be prepared for fear that he does not. And there's the rub, for should he discover that we have been doing so, we shall almost certainly be for the block."

"Perhaps we should welcome a few of the more trusted councillors into this circle." I suggest, "Suffolk, for one, for he is as close a friend as the King has ever had, and his presence might quell suspicions that we are acting against his Majesty's interest. He considers treachery against the King to be the greatest sin a courtier can commit - and all know it."

The Queen nods, "I agree that Suffolk would be a most suitable member of such a Council, though I fear my brother Thomas would be too impetuous to join us; he is too eager for the advancement that Edward has earned, but he has not."

"If we are to do so," Cromwell muses, "I think it should be one at a time as we consider it safe to do so. The lack of a plan for the succession is causing courtiers to make plans of their own: plans that exclude those who are closest to the King and the Prince."

"That is my greatest fear." Queen Jane agrees, "For my intention is to keep power out of the hands of the most rapacious Lords, and ensure it remains in the hands of my son." She looks around the table at the three of us, "You, gentlemen, are at present the only Lords whom I would trust to do that, for those who sit with you are either too recently appointed to the Council to have proved their loyalty, or have shown themselves to be too self-interested to be trusted."

"We are _all_ self interested, Majesty," I admit, a little shamefacedly, "it is merely the Mission that has quelled such instincts in me."

She smiles kindly - she knows that I do not jest.

"I shall approach his Grace." Hertford volunteers, "While he has lost his absolute distrust for the two of you, he still does not fully trust you - for he does not know what we know. Thus, if he is to join with us, he must learn the truth of what you are, my Lord Cromwell."

Cromwell smiles, "I look forward to seeing how he takes such tidings, my Lord Hertford."

* * *

As we are at Whitehall - the biggest of Henry's Palaces, I have been granted a separate office of my own, similar to that of Cromwell. Our offices are linked by a private corridor, which also links to the main office chambers - which are overseen by the King's Secretary, Thomas Wriothesley. During my time as Solicitor General, I was busy enough as it was - but my promotion so high has left me in much the same boat as Cromwell: suddenly all sorts of strange things have become my problem to solve. I have also learned remarkable new things - such as the odd nickname 'Call me' that the Clerks have for the Secretary, thanks to his manner of explaining the pronunciation of his name to those who have only ever seen it set down on paper. How is it that I did not notice that while I shared the room with them? I suppose it just goes to show how preoccupied I was when I was so set upon my advancement, and even more so when I became Cromwell's Second.

A light knock on the door that leads to the offices heralds the arrival of the Secretary, a tall, thin man with a remarkably inscrutable face and a monotone voice. Again, as I always do, I feel an uncomfortable shudder down my back, for he has always intimidated me. Why he does so, I cannot begin to guess - but I have never been able to rid myself of the conviction that he would drive a dagger in me to snatch my position. That he was prepared to destroy the only evidence that would exonerate Cromwell after the false accusation of treachery that sent him to the Tower does nothing to ease it. He has never acted against me - but still I am afraid that, one day, he might.

"What is it, Mr Wriothesley?" He looks perturbed; which is never a good sign.

"I'm afraid it is the Earl of Surrey again, my Lord." He says, rather more conversationally than usual, "He has been in another fight."

Oh God - not again. Henry Howard is a rambunctious owner of the hallowed Howard name - impetuous, arrogant and quite convinced of his superiority thanks to the accident of birth that placed him in such an illustrious family. When he is _not_ being impetuous, arrogant and convinced of his superiority, however, he can be remarkably personable, intelligent and cultured. Unfortunately, when he _is_ , he embraces those traits with wholehearted enthusiasm, "And you feel we must take the matter to his Majesty?"

Rather than make him stand over me, which I dislike intensely, I indicate that he sit.

"I think not," Wriothesley, admits, pauses, then continues, "though I have heard it reported that he has been consuming meat during Lent."

Ah - so that is the problem. I have seen God's power, and felt it - and both Cromwell and I learned the power of the Word - so I no longer feel convinced that those who approach God in a manner other than my own are absolutely wrong. Besides, Cromwell has reformist beliefs, and our friendship has taught me to respect them. I am, however, not fool enough to think that others look upon reform with the same degree of enthusiasm as Cromwell, and certainly Wriothesley is as conservative as Gardiner used to be.

While the King has rejected the supremacy of the Pope, he has not rejected the faith of his fathers. Thus Lent is observed as it has always been - no meat, no rich foods and no rich living. Those who wish to consume meat may receive a licence to do so, but nonetheless, any who do are at risk of accusations of heresy. Only London's very small Jewish population are exempt - so they are still able to obtain meat during our times of abstinence and fasting - and butchers thus remain open to serve them.

"Does he have a licence?" is my immediate question.

"He claims to do so, and I believe he has been purchasing his meat from the small butchery in Honey Lane; near the Church of All Hallows." He finishes the sentence with distaste: there are suspicions that All Hallows is a hotbed of Lutheran sentiment that Wriothesley would very much like to destroy. Hell, I thought we had got rid of that sort of sentiment when Gardiner was banished. "His Grace the Bishop of London and I would are concerned that he may be spending time there."

God no, not another one. I had quite forgotten about Edmund Bonner - as hot for the destruction of Heretics as Gardiner had been. The last thing we need is an outbreak of religious persecution seeding chaos in London, "I would advise against it at this time, Mr Wriothesley. If his Grace does not moderate his behaviour, either temporal or spiritual, then it may be necessary to approach his Majesty; but not now."

His attempt to conceal his disappointment is not as successful as he thinks it is; but he rises, bows and departs. Immediately, I shudder again, and I find that I am most relieved that he is gone. Why does he discomfit me so? I am vastly more powerful than he - and he has no means by which he can outstep me - but still, I feel that same stab of cold nerves when I see him, and I cannot fathom why.

Fortunately, I do not have the time to think about it, as I have a council meeting to attend.

* * *

The reek in the room is almost palpable, despite the early spring chill. The council chamber is always packed with thickly dressed bodies, though I sometimes feel that the King, his already enormous frame padded out even more by his equally enormous garments, takes up half the space by himself.

Some of the faces have been present for years - such as Hertford, his brother Thomas and Suffolk; but others are much newer - particularly the powerful frame of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. It cannot be denied that we need men of the North on the Council, for the North of England is a place where the old ways hold strong, and the progressive ideas of those of us in London are not always welcome. Indeed, not two years ago, his Majesty travelled to York with the Queen, where he held court and was made welcome by those who - some four years before that, had come close to rising against him. Had Cromwell's reforms of the law to aid the poor not begun to bear fruit, I fear we might have seen a dreadful uprising.

There is little to discuss today. Most of Cromwell's projects are progressing well - the road system he has been planning has been mapped out to link up the larger cities such as Norwich, Winchester, York, Doncaster and Coventry, and further roads to connect other towns as funds can be assigned. It's hard to find the money, as the King is still most eager to continue spending large amounts of it upon himself. Keen to recapture his youth, he has been talking of making war again - a ghastly enterprise that would certainly bankrupt us. Much of our discussions seem to consist of Suffolk and Cromwell carefully attempting to steer him away from such foolish thoughts. Instead, the one thing that we most need to consider remains unmentioned - for the King still refuses to discuss any topics that touch upon his own mortality.

After an hour and a half of stilted talk in an atmosphere of pus and stink, the King finally dismisses us, and heaves his bulk into his great carrying chair to be transported back to the Privy Chamber. While he had walked to us, the effort of that has tired him, and he must be conveyed away.

"God help us, we must discuss the succession." Suffolk mutters as the councillors depart. Sitting beside him, Hertford nods, but says nothing until only Cromwell and I remain in the room. We do not want those whose loyalty we cannot be assured of to hear what is to follow.

"It is a matter of great concern also to her Majesty." He says, eventually, "For her younger age, and better health, leave her concerned that she shall be obliged to protect the right of a youthful prince alone. Without an agreed path for the succession, she is fearful that his Highness shall be robbed of his inheritance."

Suffolk nods, "Woe unto the realm whose King is a child." He pauses, "I will not join with factions, my Lord. I trust this is not what you are asking of me."

"Absolutely not, your Grace." Hertford says, firmly, "Our greatest concern is that factions are already forming. We must ensure that they do not vie with one another to oust her Majesty and attempt to rule through Prince Edward; that would lead only to chaos and disorder at a time when we must be strong and united."

The Duke eyes Cromwell and I with a mild frown, "And, I assume, their Graces the Earl of Essex and Baron Rich of Leighs are also members of this 'Queen's Party'?"

I am not surprised when Cromwell bows his head to acknowledge Suffolk's words, "I am aware of, and understand, your distrust both of me, and of the Lord Privy Seal. I am also aware that my assurances alone shall not convince you of my absolute loyalty to his Majesty. Your own loyalty is unimpeachable - and you have shown many times that you consider treachery to be the greatest crime a Courtier can commit, for you spoke in my support at a time when I was at my most lost, knowing that I had been a victim of such treachery."

Hertford takes over, "If we are to serve his Majesty, and ensure the safety of the Succession, there are certain… _facts_ …of which you should be aware. With that in mind, her Majesty has asked that you join us in her Privy Chamber this evening. I appreciate that there is no reason for you to trust us - but I hope that my assurance, and hers, shall convince you that we are concerned only for the future safety of the Realm."

Suffolk remains still for some time, clearly thinking the matter over. I know better than to speak, for I lack Cromwell's persuasiveness, and I have worked to keep my own reputation as murky as it was before I abandoned my former ways. Finally, he nods, "I shall give you my trust, Gentlemen. Advise me of the time at which you wish me to present myself to her Majesty, and I shall be there. Furthermore, I shall speak nothing of it to any other - unless I feel that I must."

Hertford nods, "I understand. I shall send word to you to join us by the hand of her Majesty's Principal Usher."

The Duke eyes us all, one by one, "I am agog with anticipation."


	2. The Intelligent Mr Cecil

Chapter Two

 _The Intelligent Mr Cecil_

The group at the table is, indeed, a strange one. Her Majesty sits at its head, Cromwell to her right, Lady Jane Rochford to her left. I sit beside Cromwell, while Hertford sits beside Lady Rochford. Suffolk, however, is still on his feet, and eyes us all with much scepticism, "This is a most peculiar Council, your Majesty."

Queen Jane smiles, "Indeed so, your Grace. Lady Rochford is my Principal Lady in Waiting, and also my personal bodyguard, while Baron Rich is the companion and aid to the Lord Cromwell. His Grace, the Earl of Essex is more than merely the Lord Chancellor; he is also more than a mere bodyguard - for he does not guard only my person. He guards all of England."

Suffolk blinks.

"Her Majesty's description of my work is perhaps somewhat picturesque," Cromwell says, smoothly, "but it is largely correct, your Grace. I am what is known as a Silver Sword - sworn to fight against creatures of darkness and to protect the English Court from that which would aim to plunge all England into chaos. This is the seat of England's Government, and so its protection is vital. I have no wish to control the succession; only to secure its safe progress. Ruling this nation is the work of greater men than I. I intend only to protect it."

"I thought you to be no more than a mercenary." Suffolk eyes Cromwell rather uncertainly, "I take it that such an assessment was incorrect?"

Cromwell nods, "I suggest you take a seat, your Grace. The tale I must tell is a long one."

And so, once more, I sit back and enjoy the story of Cromwell's journey from a beaten child to a warrior against evil. For Suffolk, who is hearing it for the first time, his eyes widen, then narrow, then widen again as the tale unfolds; and he is particularly intrigued by the raven swords, which Cromwell has brought with him.

"Raven?" he says, as he examines one of the bright silvery blades, crested at the hilt with Cromwell's sigil.

"All Silver Swords have sigils, your Grace." Cromwell advises, quietly, "It preserves our anonymity from all but those who know of our business. Your knowledge inducts you into a very small, and select group. His Majesty knows nothing of the forces ranged against his realm, or of those who are tasked with protecting it from those forces."

"And you can sense demons." It is not a question, though the statement has an edge of scepticism.

"I can - for all demons exude a foul ichor that some few men can detect. I discovered my ability entirely by chance - and in the presence of a serving Silver Sword, who understood its import, and who saved my life. Thanks to him, I entered the House of the Silver Swords in Milan, and trained there for four years. I was fortunate in that a sword became available to claim after that time, for sometimes swords are not returned for considerable periods, as they are returned only when Silver Swords retire and join the House as Masters, or when they are killed or die in service."

"And what is Mr Rich's role in all of this?"

It is my turn to speak, then, "I am the Earl's Second, your Grace. Men, or women, such as I work alongside a Silver Sword assigned to a Royal Court. My purpose is to undertake research for my Silver Sword, to ensure that he is always as informed as is possible when he faces any threat that might impose itself upon England."

"And you do more, do you not, my Lord?" the Queen smiles, "I am given to understand that it is not usual for Seconds to fight alongside Silver Swords; but he has done so - and between them, the Raven and his Second have kept this court safe from a threat so great that it might have plunged all of the world into slavery and destruction."

"Also that." I concede, returning her smile.

Suffolk sighs, "I suspect that disbelieving you shall cause me to look a fool. Thus, I shall not. Unless I discover differently, you have my word that I shall speak to no one of this. Not even his Majesty." He is, not surprisingly, most uncomfortable at the thought of keeping this from his friend.

Queen Jane smiles at him, "I appreciate your candour, your Grace. I assure you that we shall not give you reason to distrust us, for our work is intended solely to keep the King safe, and the Kingdom with him. Now," she turns back to Cromwell, her expression now more brisk, "Are the precincts of the Court still safe from vermin?"

"Yes, Majesty," Cromwell nods, "I have not seen a ravener in the court for more than a year, despite regular patrols. The death of Lamashtu seems to have caused something of a schism in the demonic realms, and any creature of darkness that might wish to claim England for its own is too engaged with fighting over who might have such a privilege. I can only assume that the raveners that would otherwise be roaming the Court…"

"Excuse me," Suffolk interrupts, "Lamashtu?"

"A Demoness of great power, your Grace," I explain, "she was the greatest threat to the Realm that has ever been known - ancient and dangerous. So much so, that she was an aberration upon the face of all creation, and her destruction was our sole focus for three years or more." I pause for a moment, "In fact, she was responsible for more suffering that we could have imagined - for her greatest pleasure was to destroy infants - even unborn."

The Duke stares at me; even though he knows so little of our world - he appreciates my meaning.

"Yes, your Grace." Queen Jane says, quietly, "It was she who was responsible for the ending of Queen Katherine's marriage, and the destruction of Queen Anne. The King's desire for a son, and the fear of having none to whom he could leave his realm, ensured that their failures to provide one killed his love for both of them. Lamashtu's aim was to prevent a male heir from coming to the throne of England, thereby placing the Realm at risk of war as foreign powers fought to claim the hand of a Queen."

"I knew nothing of Lamashtu when she moved against Queen Katherine, or Queen Anne," Cromwell admits, sadly, "for at that time I had no Second, and could not spare the time for research."

"Who was your Second prior to my Lord Rich?" Suffolk asks.

"Cardinal Wolsey."

Yet again, we are met with incredulity, but then the Duke pauses, "That explains much, I think."

"It does?" the Queen asks, bemused.

"Did you not move against the Boleyns, your Grace? I find it hard to believe that your actions were not coloured by a loss such as that - for if your partnership with the Cardinal reflects that which you have with my Lord Rich, I would not be remotely surprised." He pauses, smiling slightly, "And you thought I believed you to be enamoured of one another." His smile widens, as I feel my face growing hot with embarrassment. Then he sits back in his chair, "What are your plans?"

Cromwell nods, "It is our intention that, should the Prince Edward accede to the throne while still in his minority, her Majesty shall rule as Regent with the aid of a Regency Council. There shall be no Lord Protector, for there is no need for one. When his Highness is old enough to assume his inheritance, he shall thus be secure with a Council whom he can trust, and he shall have been taught well by those who seek only to ensure that he has the knowledge and learning to rule well."

"And who do you intend to place on this council?"

"At present, your Grace, that is our dilemma." Hertford answers, "While it is perhaps inevitable that I should serve upon it, for the Prince Edward is of my blood, and both the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal shall do so by virtue of their posts; other than yourself, we are as yet uncertain who should be included - for fear that we might find ourselves surrounded by members who would band together to displace us in order to make themselves a Protector and Council, rather than that which we would hope to create."

"And that, of course," the Queen adds, "Would ensure the loss of the Realm's greatest protectors upon the scaffold."

"You place great trust in these men, Majesty." Suffolk says, quietly, leaning forward.

"With good reason. They saved the life of my son, and then mine. Do you think it was mere chance - or perhaps a miracle - that saved me from childbed fever, your Grace? It was not - for their Graces, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, between them drove Lamashtu from the birthing chamber, and then, my Lord Cromwell saved my very life through the discharging of a life debt that he owed me after I saved his."

"You saved his life, Majesty?"

"I did, your Grace."

He sighs, and sits back in his chair again, "There is much that I do not know, it seems." He pauses, then nods, "Very well, I shall go further than to merely give my assurance of silence. Majesty, I pledge myself to your service, and the safety of the Succession. Should our good Lord choose to call his Majesty home before our Prince is of age, I shall stand with you to ensure that he comes into his inheritance surrounded by those who shall ensure that he receives it."

The Queen smiles, "Thank you, your Grace; of all the men at the Council table I would hope to have at our side, you are the most welcome. I promise you, however, that we shall endeavour to avoid placing you in a position where you feel your loyalty to his Majesty is compromised. It is as much my wish as yours that he live to see his son grow to manhood - but I think we are both hoping for that which shall not be."

He nods sadly, "That is true, Majesty. I swear, however, that you can count upon my loyalty - for you seek the safety of his Majesty's legacy, and that is also my goal."

He rises, with us, and we bow together. Watching us, the Queen smiles, "And so, the first members of my son's Council are confirmed."

* * *

The papers upon my desk are not those which I would wish any of the clerks to see, for they have come from Milan. As a consequence of our success in defeating Lamashtu, the High has placed far more trust in me than I have ever had before, and now it is I to whom the Spies in England report, rather than to Milan. Indeed, he has required me to take charge of the operations of the Order in England entirely - a responsibility that still terrifies me even after two years at such a many-threaded helm.

I had always known that the Order is supported by a network of absolutely loyal spies - though what I did not know was that those who serve the Order in such capacity are usually those who have been saved by it. Nor was I aware that there were so many of them, or that there were three itinerant Silver Swords at work across England. One of them, Bull, patrols the Palaces when the Court is not in residence, while another, Hare, travels the North of England, and Scotland. The third, Boar, who won the swords given up when Richard Crookback died, patrols the South, and the wild lands of Wales. They once reported to Cromwell, but now he has directed that they report to me.

Consequently, I am regularly obliged to closet myself away, in case the Clerks see papers that they should not. As I am this morning, for though the papers show there is little to fear, for it seems that Demonic activity is suppressed across Europe, their content would certainly send me to prison, and probably either the hangman or the stake. Nonetheless, Cromwell shall be pleased that all remains so quiet, and I do not scrabble frantically to hide the papers as the door of the connecting chamber between our offices opens. There is only one person who enters without knocking.

"News from the house, Richie?"

"Indeed, Thomas. All of it good - for the courts of Europe are as quiet as ours - and the itinerants are quite at a loss for evil forces to battle." I advise him, cheerfully, "Thus, the only matters of concern to us at this time are the endless political machinations of Kings."

He smiles, "And that, of course, is far easier to counter. I am to meet with the King this afternoon, but I should appreciate it if you could join me to sup tonight."

"With pleasure, Thomas." I clear the papers away, for I have my own work to do. My great hope is that I can create a sufficient lull in my workload so that I can depart the palace and return to Grant's Place, as I have no doubt that more papers have arrived there, and I no longer have an apprentice Second to catalogue them. That, however, shall have to wait, for even when I reside at Whitehall, a visit to Grant's Place requires either a day's absence, or an overnight stay. As I am supping with Cromwell tonight, that is not something that I can do today.

The rest of the afternoon keeps me busy, and I am stifling yawns as I arrive at Cromwell's rather palatial apartments. His manservant, a rather bemused young man by the name of James who is still coming to terms with his Master's duties, admits me and I am delighted to find that I am not alone in awaiting his arrival, "Tom! When did you get back to Court?"

Rising from his chair with a broad smile, Sir Thomas Wyatt crosses to shake my hand enthusiastically, "No more than two hours ago, Richard. It is right good to see you again! Are you well?"

"Most well - has James served you wine?"

"A goodly glass of claret, my friend; I have much to tell you both. Come, take a seat; Thomas was called back to speak to his Majesty, but I am sure he shall not be long."

We talk of nothing much for a while, as the most important subjects shall be covered when we are three again, but Wyatt seems to have something in mind - a topic that he seems uncomfortable to broach.

"What is it, Tom? Something is concerning you."

"It is of no moment, Richard - I have other matters of interest that I am sure you shall be pleased to hear, for I was in Granada not four weeks ago, as a guest at the Alhambra."

He is right - I am indeed most interested, for the Alhambra is the home of Queen Maria, formerly the Lady Mary, and her husband, King Miguel. We have heard fragments of their life together - gleaned from ambassadors - but I have heard nothing more, and certainly nothing of my former apprentice Second, Molly, who was dispatched to join Henry's Daughter and support the Silver Sword who would be protecting her Court.

Fortunately, Cromwell is not long, and we are seated together as we used to be when we were three, supping on a fine-turned leg of mutton, and sharing information and gossip.

"I barely recognised Molly," Wyatt says, a cup of claret in his hand, "She has great poise, Richard - they trained her well at Padua. To hear her speak, you would never have known that she was naught but an untutored pot washer when first we found her. Dickon is also well, and she bore him a son two years ago - whom they called Thomas Richard.

"Mary is also in excellent health - and her happiness is reflected in her demeanour at Court, for she is loved by all and rules beside her husband as an equal in the manner of Ferdinand and Isabella. Their first son, Charles, is a handsome boy and shows great promise despite his being a child of three. Naturally, her Serene Majesty was most keen to hear of your work - though disappointed to learn that you have found yourselves as starved of adventuring as her Silver Sword, a Castilian with the Jackal blades."

"That is excellent news." Cromwell agrees, as Wyatt sips from his cup, "I am most pleased that all is well in Iberia, and that Mary has found the happiness that was so cruelly denied her when her mother lost her place at Court. I feared that we might be sowing dreadful seeds in her - but instead she has blossomed."

"Indeed she has, Thomas." Wyatt grins, "And she was blossoming even more when I left, for she is expecting her second child."

"Did you come across any matters of concern on your journey north?" I ask.

Wyatt shakes his head, "I fear not, for my journey was overland only to Almería, where I took ship aboard a merchantman bound for Tilbury. Though there were few rumours to be found on the way - and there was no news in Lisbon, or Corunna, or La Rochelle, though I did hear word of an old woman in Honfleur who claimed that a great battle would open the way for a man on a horse - but all thought her to be a harmless old madwoman. I thought so, too; though I did not see her, and thus I know only what I was told by others."

Cromwell smiles, "I have learned never to disregard the statements of those thought to be insane. For they are not always so - some see that which others do not, and are not necessarily mad."

Our conversation moves on to lighter matters as we seat ourselves before the fire with mulled wine and comfits. It is altogether later than I intended, when Wyatt and I depart to return to our respective quarters - and I am happy to accompany him, as our journey is along the same route.

"He is looking very tired." Wyatt murmurs, as we walk slowly along.

"Who - Thomas? I am not surprised - for we have been most busy of late; there is much to be done by men of our rank…"

"I have been absent from court for two years, Richard. You have been at his side almost daily during that time, so perhaps you do not see it as starkly as I. Thomas is growing old - his hair is greying and he seems to be in pain, for his movements were stiffer than they once were."

I stop, and glare at Wyatt, "In what way is his ability to serve his King impaired?"

Rather than demur, Wyatt reaches out and rests his hand upon my shoulder, "You forget, Richard - he is older than the King. He carries his advancing years more easily than his Majesty for he has lived a more active life and thus his health is not so compromised. I have no doubt that he is more than capable of defending this realm as he did when I worked at your side - but you must appreciate that your own ageing shows far less, for you are younger than he."

Perhaps I should shrug off that hand, but I do not - for I know that to do so would show only foolish refusal to accept his words. He is, of course, right; when has he not been? "We continue to spar together, Tom. He has not shown any diminution in his skill to me. But then, we have not been obliged to fight raveners for over a year, and then it was but one who must have wandered into the Court by chance - for we consider that they have been pressed into service by higher demons who fight for ascendancy in the light of Lamashtu's fall."

Wyatt nods, "Indeed so - but no one can live forever, Richard; I have no doubt that Thomas has already been considering the future in wider terms merely than the succession - and I think you should do the same. You may well not be ready to retire, but it may be that Thomas is."

"No." I shake my head, vigorously, "That he shall not do - not while he must protect the realm at this most dangerous time."

"Indeed so - and I know that he shall do so with you at his side. But you must consider the future, too. Where is your apprentice? Why have you not taken one on? Even if you are not ready, without Molly to aid you, the Library must be in need of work - and who better than an apprentice to assist you in that endeavour? Then you are free to work here - and perhaps leave the Kingdom in their hands when the time comes for you to leave court and enjoy well-earned rest."

I feel my shoulders sag slightly. Much as I loathe to agree with him, he is again right. It is one of my responsibilities as a Second to train others to follow me. In not doing so, I am failing in a vital duty, and that must cease. But I have not come across anyone who might fill such a role - for Molly was found by sheer chance. How am I to find another individual as gifted as she?

"Forgive me, Tom." I say, eventually, "While I must ask to disagree with your view of Thomas, I do not disagree with your view on my own activities. I have no apprentice, and I should do so. So I shall work to remedy that at the first opportunity."

"There's nothing to forgive, Richard." Wyatt smiles again, as we turn to continue our walk, "I would have been a poor friend not to raise my worries, for I do so out of love for you both. It is Thomas's decision whether or not he is fit to continue, not mine - and I shall remain a staunch ally to your cause, even if I am not upon these shores."

"Of that, I am certain, Tom." I admit, and our talk falls back to more cheerful matters, and I put such thoughts from my head as I retire for the night.

The following morning, I am hard put not to send surreptitious glances towards Cromwell as we meet to discuss matters of policy prior to the council meeting. It is true that his hair is now greying at the temples, and he does indeed look tired, I refuse to believe that he is not yet ready to retire from his place as Lord Chancellor. And yet - he seems to move more slowly than once he did…

No. _No_. He is not too old. He is not…

"Richie?" I look up, embarrassed. I hope he hasn't noticed my nervous scrutiny.

"It's nothing. I was thinking about something Tom said last night. I have not sought out an apprentice since Molly left us - and he is concerned that that might be an error on my part."

Cromwell nods, "Perhaps so. I, too, have become somewhat complacent of late, I fear. We have lived too long in the luxury of no great threat from the demonic world; and thus we stagnate. I think it wise that we both consider how the realm shall be protected in the years to come. There is more than merely a change of reign to prepare for."

His words unnerve me a little, "Perhaps so - but we still have much to do, do we not? Besides, I do not think it possible to train up a new Second overnight - even one who would not have to learn their letters before they could begin; as Molly did."

He smiles at me, "Indeed we do, Richie. I think, however, that it would be wise to alert the Itinerants to seek out those who might be able to sense ichor. There may well be four of us in the Realm, but we are none of us getting younger. Not one of the three who roam these isles has any wish to take my place - which is a burden I could well do without; for if I were to wish to give up my swords and turn to teaching those who enter the House, I could not do so. A new Court Silver Sword would need to be inducted before I could depart, and that is assuming that there were any that the High felt could be trusted with such a post. England's Court is in the greatest need of protection, thanks to our island state."

I fight to conceal my relief; for, much as I know that my role is to support a Silver Sword, I have wish to support any other than _this_ one. There is no one else that I trust to the same degree; no one for whom I would lay down my life. I suppose I could come to trust a new Silver Sword, but nonetheless, to lose the closest friend I have would be a painful blow. God, why am I thinking this? It is not, after all, as though such a situation is upon us. There is too much to be organised and settled first.

Whorwood is waiting for me when I return to my office from yet another ghastly council meeting where the only thing that lingers in my mind is my revulsion at the reek of the King's legs. The Solicitor General, William Whorwood has been a capable replacement following my elevation, and I respect his judgement a great deal. Not that he knows of my 'other' role, of course.

"Are you busy, my Lord?" he asks, his voice quiet and measured; a relief from the unnerving monotone of Wriothesley.

"Not at all, Mr Whorwood; please, take a seat." He has no need to consult with me, so I am not sure why he is here, "How can I be of assistance to you?"

"I merely wished to advise you that I have received a letter of recommendation from John Cheke concerning one of his pupils, a young man by the name of William Cecil. It seems that he is a highly intelligent gentleman of good birth, and Cheke is convinced that he shall be a most worthy servant of the Realm."

"Why do you bring this matter to me?" I do not generally require my fellow officials to approach me for permission to engage new men, "If you wish to include him amongst your staff, then I would have no objection. I take it that he has legal training?"

"Indeed - he is currently at Gray's Inn, though I think that his heart is not in it. He has, however, a peerless understanding of Greek, and of Latin. While he would certainly be an able Lawyer, he would not be particularly dedicated, I fear, for it is not his vocation. Better, I think that he become part of the General offices under your oversight, my Lord, or perhaps His Grace, the Earl. I am well aware that he is most keen to bring men of talent into government rather than men solely of high birth."

In spite of myself, I am intrigued at his description, "You speak of him as though he were a veritable Cicero, Mr Whorwood. I think I should be most intrigued to meet him." Besides, I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. No sooner do I fear that I must seek out a new apprentice, than it seems that one has been all but presented to me. I can only hope, then, that he is as talented as Cheke has suggested.

Cromwell's expression is as intrigued as mine was, "My only concern is that Mr Cheke has overstated the talent of this young man. He is occasionally inclined to show rather more enthusiasm than a pupil warrants."

I take a sip of hippocras, "Perhaps, but I intend to meet with him as soon as it is possible to do so. Now seems an appropriate time - for I cannot believe that it shall be long until we shall be obliged to remove; not when summer is all but upon us. Unless his Majesty wishes to remain alongside a stinking river while his own body reeks with it."

He sighs, "That is true. I should be most surprised if we are not asked to begin preparations to remove to Hampton Court within the next two or three weeks. The stench of the middens is becoming quite insupportable."

He is wearing his black 'hunting' garments this evening, as am I, in anticipation of a patrol through the corridors. I expect that such a hunt shall be fruitless again, but it is the day that we rest that shall be the day that a ravener claims a life. It is not worth the risk. Besides, it has become such an ingrained habit for us both now, that we would feel most neglectful if we did not.

Setting aside the last remains of our supper, we gather our weapons together. While I am considerably more skilled now than once I was, I am still dreadfully clumsy, and so I prefer to restrict my weapons to the silver-bladed poniard that Cromwell gifted to me, and a brother blade of slightly longer length that I obtained for myself. To use a sword when the King is in residence is forbidden, and I am not as capable of hiding my sword from view as Cromwell is with his. Thus it is better to carry shorter blades, and trust that we shall find nothing.

As expected, our hunt is indeed fruitless - though we are not disappointed in this, for it is preferable to us both that there be no raveners present, than that we find one with regularity. The risk that we might not discover its presence until someone has died at its hands is one we prefer to avoid. Consequently, we return to Cromwell's apartments for a last drink of hippocras beside the fire, before I return to my own apartments to sleep.

* * *

The man awaiting me in my office the next morning is tall and thin, with a quite ruddy complexion. His appearance is most bookish, a reflection of a life of learning; for he has spent six years at Cambridge; though he has no degree, for only those destined for the Church are granted such honours. Instead he has been at Gray's Inn now for a time, still studying - though I suspect, as Cheke does, that his interests lie more in terms of traversing the corridors of Royalty. That said, I do not think that he is as eager or greedy for advancement as I was at his age; and that is most certainly a good thing.

"Take a seat, Mr Cecil." I indicate the chair across from me, and he does as bid, "I understand John Cheke is most impressed with your learning." I am, I fear, being most impolite, for rather than addressing him in English, I do so in Greek; for that is my strongest alternative language.

"I fear my teacher speaks of me in glowing terms that I do not merit, my Lord." His answer is impeccable. It seems that neither teacher nor lawyer were exaggerating his ability with the tongues of classical antiquity. Rather than continue the conversation in such an old tongue, I revert back to English.

"That is something that I think we shall both find to be not so." I disagree, for while I know little of Cheke, I trust Whorwood's judgement, and I have so far never found myself to be in error in doing so. "Thus I think it would be useful to put you to work alongside Mr Wriothesley, for I understand that your interests lie more towards further learning than the practise of law, so that is what you shall do."

He smiles; clearly pleased to find that he shall not be obliged to bury himself in ghastly legal tangles too often. He need not know at this juncture that my intention is to see his skill at researching information, for if he has no ability to do so, then he is of no use to the Order. I suspect, however, from that light of interest in his eyes, that he shall be. Nonetheless, I shall not make a final decision upon whether or not he should be my apprentice until I have seen him at work.

By the end of the day, I am already approaching that decision. Wriothesley, unaware of my scrutiny, has assigned Cecil several tasks that require quite intricate exploration of filed papers, and is astonished to receive detailed documents with the results he sought just as he is clearing away his writing equipment to depart. He is still sitting at his desk, reading the papers when I come through to the offices. While I am not overly surprised to find him still in the chambers - for he is not one to leave early - his expression is one that intrigues me: impressed, yet disgruntled. Clearly he is surprised at what he has received, and feels rather that he is in danger of being supplanted by a highly capable, younger man.

"What have you there?" I have already guessed, for he discussed the matter with me during the midday meal.

"Mr Cecil appears to be most talented, my Lord." Wriothesley says, a little stiffly, "His research was carried out both efficiently and diligently, and he has provided me with the information I required in rather a shorter space of time than I anticipated."

Even I am surprised at this, "In a single day, Mr Wriothesley?"

He nods, and hands over one of the papers, "This was his response to my request to seek out and report upon a number of points of law that are pertinent to his Majesty's intentions to settle lands upon the Lady Elizabeth."

I read over the pages; to my astonishment, Cecil's work has incorporated legal arguments that cover similar transactions over the last fifty years - all of which are stored within the Whitehall archives. He has done this in a single _day_. God above, I thought myself to be at least reasonably intelligent - but his ability to read and absorb text quickly certainly outstrips mine. I would be mad to let this opportunity by: he does not need to learn to read, nor to decipher Latin or Greek. I suspect he would be able to search the Library within an hour of being introduced to it - possibly less. It is as though he has been granted to us as a gift.

"A gift?" Cromwell asks, eyebrow sardonically raised, as he sets his claret down, "He seems quite a paragon."

I swallow my mouthful of mutton, "I do not think myself to be wrong in saying so - for he is remarkably quick to absorb information, and to interpret it. In all honesty, I am quite sure that his apprenticeship would be rather shorter than mine was."

Cromwell smiles at me, "Do not speak of yourself so, Richie. If there was ever a time when you were conceited, those days are long gone, and now you seem to lean in quite the opposite direction. You had no aid when you entered the Library for the first time, and I have no doubt that Mr Cecil would be as challenged as you were by that circumstance. He shall need your knowledge and experience - for no matter how intelligent he is, experience he lacks."

"I am relieved that all I must teach him is that which I have accumulated through experience, Thomas. I have been lax in securing an apprentice, so one that needs no tuition in the languages of the library is most helpful to start with."

"I suspect that the hardest thing you shall have to do is convince him that you are not making fun of him."

"Alas, yes." I admit, ruefully. That shall _certainly_ be a challenge.


	3. A Second to Be

Chapter Three

 _A Second to Be_

The Palace is all a-bustle this morning: servants preparing rooms, cooks working on a grand feast - for today the young Prince Edward is returning to Court. He has been away for nearly eight months, convention finally outweighing his mother's determination to keep him at her side, living in his own household at Windsor. Today, however, he is returning home to his parents and his siblings; and the air of cheer is almost palpable.

The most senior Lords shall await him in the Presence Chamber alongside his Royal parents, but the less illustrious, such as Cromwell and I, shall greet the boy as he arrives, and we emerge as soon as word is sent that his entourage are approaching the gates.

The horses clatter into the Deal Yard, percussive strikes of shoes upon cobbles that spring sparks into the air. The beasts snort and whinny, while those aboard them talk amongst themselves, and shout out to the squad of grooms waiting to take the horses through to the mews.

We all bow deeply to the Prince as he looks at us from aboard his horse. The boy is growing well - tall and with that famous red-gold hair of his line. His expression is bright and happy - for he is to be reunited with his parents for a time - and his demeanour exudes a friendly joy that seems quite infectious. Queen Jane was always insistent that he learn that a Prince should inspire loyalty through love, as much as fear, and it seems that her demand is bearing fruit. While I would not wish Edward to be forced to carry the burden of kingship at such a young age, I know that I would willingly stand at his side on his Council, should he wish it.

"Welcome back to Court, your Highness." Cromwell says, solemnly, once Edward is dismounted, "The King's Grace and Her Majesty await you in the Presence Chamber."

"Thank you, my Lord." Edward answers, politely, in his rather piping voice, "I am glad to be back."

Unlike most at Court, the boy does not regard Cromwell with dislike or distrust - another legacy of his mother's education. Being a man of base birth, Cromwell is heartily disliked by those of higher stock; particularly by the Earl of Surrey. But then, Howard despises me for the same reasons, despite my Gentry-birth, and would happily have the pair of us bundled off to the Tower if he could do so. For those who consider the business of ruling the nation to be the sole preserve of noblemen, we are a poisonous infection that should be cut out at the first opportunity. That the world is changing, and Kings should be served by those who have proved their worth through merit, not blood, conflicts greatly with their sense of innate superiority, it seems. But then, he has never been obliged to deal with a demon, so what does he know of the work required to protect a Kingdom?

Edward advances through the Court Gate into the Privy Gardens to enter the corridors to the King's apartments. Deferentially, Cromwell accompanies him - but walks a pace behind. He is an Earl, but nonetheless knows better than to parade such status to those who gained their titles by blood. Almost immediately, Edward pauses, "Walk with me, my Lord."

Startled, Cromwell falls into step beside the Prince, who continues, "How is my father?"

The boy is eight years old - and yet he has the considerations of a man grown. Is that healthy, or wise? My own children were not given to such questions at that age - though they were granted the grace to be children for longer than this child.

"He is as well as can be expected, your Grace." Cromwell advises, honestly, "His leg is troubling him, but otherwise he is in fair health. Your gracious mother is ever at his side, and oversees the work of his doctors. Certainly, he is well today - and he is keen to greet you, though I suspect your Royal brother and sister are equally pleased at your return."

"Elizabeth is here?" Edward asks, surprised that she is not at her own house at Hatfield. Only little Prince Hal is now permanently in residence - his siblings in Households of their own. She is still being chased by suitors from across Europe - but has not, as yet, accepted any offer. I am beginning to wonder if she will ever do so.

"She is, Highness." Cromwell nods, "I believe she has made a gift for you."

Edward's face lights up. Prince he may be; but he is still a boy, and appreciates presents as much as any other.

As we walk through the outer chambers, Cromwell allows himself to fall a pace behind again, as he is not willing to give the impression that he has designs upon the future governance of the Prince. As we go, all bow deeply to the young boy, who seems able to take the deference in his stride, thank God.

When we arrive in the Presence Chamber, the glitter of silks, jewels and cloth of gold is all but blinding. All of the highest Nobles are present: Suffolk and Norfolk - returned once more - at the King's side, while the Earls Surrey, Shrewsbury and Hertford stand nearby. As we approach, Cromwell and I, with the other lesser councillors stand aside and allow the youth to approach his parents alone.

As he does so, I cannot help but feel sorry for him. On the rare occasions that I am able to leave Court, my own children greet me as a father, and indeed I fondly recall the times when they were younger - before age obliged them to temper their behaviour - that they would run to me, and call me 'Poppa'. Edward, however, must approach with stiff formality, and bow to his parents - for they are his King and Queen as much as his mother and father.

"Welcome back to Court, my boy!" Henry declaims from his heavy chair, "We are right glad to see you so well!"

Edward is no novice at this game, "As I am glad to see your gracious Majesties!" he answers, with that same stilted formality. He knows that, once they are in the King's private apartments, the formality shall drop, and he can be a boy again. At least, I hope that is still so.

The Royal family do not stay long: one would have to be blind to fail to see that Queen Jane wishes heartily to remove her child from this stifling place and into that private world where the Crown can be taken off, and the Prince and Queen can revert to being son and mother. As they depart, the King being hefted on his massive carrying chair, Cromwell watches them, his expression sad, "So the vultures gather, Richie. We must work to ensure that he is not used for the personal gain of those who would grasp power from a child."

Amen to that.

* * *

Today has been a very long day; endless papers upon my desk that require the minutest degree of attention, problems that seem utterly insurmountable unless brought to me to deal with. To think that I was once envious of Cromwell for his elevated position; how is it that he dealt with all of this and not go mad? After today's annoyances, I am quite sure that the next person who annoys me shall be hurled from the window. Never before I have I been so grateful to stow my quill in a pot and set my papers aside.

While it is an extension to the working day, our Prince's Council meeting is a relatively welcome one. There are no loaded comments, nor is there any sense of being surrounded by enemies, or a lingering air of distrust. The matters we discuss are relevant and essential for the future of the realm - the very core of Cromwell's Mission. The only problem is that we cannot discuss those matters in the presence of the King - not unless we wish to risk placing our necks upon the block.

As always, Lady Rochford is my escort, leading me through a sequence of passageways that conceal us from those who might wonder whither I am bound. The need for such secrecy is frustrating, as it would be better for all of us if we could introduce our circle to his Majesty - but so great now is his fear of dying before Edward achieves his majority that he has become convinced that the mere mention of such a calamity shall bring it to pass.

Her Majesty is awaiting us, Suffolk and Hertford already present, while Cromwell arrives but a short time later. Jonathan serves us all mulled ale as we seat ourselves, though I note that, as he sits, Cromwell has brought his swords again - despite not being dressed to hunt. Clearly we are to welcome a new member to our council table.

"Gentlemen." The Queen begins, "Before we commence our discussions, I have decided that our meeting this night should include one other." She turns to a small antechamber, and nods at the slightly open door. To our astonishment, it opens to reveal Prince Edward within, and we all stand at once.

'Your Highness." Cromwell says, gravely, and bows. Now I know why he has his swords - her Majesty must have discussed this with him in advance.

"My Lords." Edward says, in his high, child's voice, then comes to sit at the far end of the table, opposite his mother.

"Forgive me for bringing another into our secret, Gentlemen." The Queen says, "I do not consider it wise to keep this knowledge from him, as he shall be King in time, and it is better that he know now the forces ranged against him, and the loyal Subjects who stand to protect him from those forces."

Cromwell nods, quietly, though I can see from his expression that he is not as keen for the boy to know this as the Queen seems to be. God above, it's hard enough to know what lies ahead as a King, without knowing that his Kingdom is ever in danger of being overrun by demons - and all that stands against them is a man with two swords.

"Edward," Jane continues, "The men who stand before you are loyal above all others to his Majesty, to me, and to the Kingdom. No matter what comes - they shall be your protectors and mentors. Indeed, they saved your life, and mine, even as you were born. They have risked their lives to keep us safe - and, no matter what any others tell you, you must believe me - there are no others who are as loyal to you as they. They shall never lie to you, nor shall they flatter you. They can be trusted in all things - as I have learned. Keep them at your side, and they shall serve you better than any in the Kingdom."

"Yes, Mother." He nods, then sits, allowing us to do the same.

"Perhaps you would like to commence, my Lord Cromwell?" Jane invites.

He nods, then turns to the Prince, "Highness, I must admit it was not my wish that you be here today - for the matters that concern us are a heavy burden to carry even for a man grown. I should have preferred it if you could have remained safely ignorant for a little longer - but I would not hesitate to defer to the wisdom of her Majesty. Thus you should know that, while preachers speak of demons, they do not appreciate how real such creatures are, nor do they understand that infernal forces view England as a place suitable to take and hold as a fortress for their aims to destroy all of mankind.

"There is, however, an Order of men who stand to prevent such a calamity - and I am a member of that Order. The Lord Privy Seal works to assist me, both in seeking knowledge, and in fighting the creatures that we face. Your Uncle is a staunch ally who has stood at our side these six years past, while Lady Rochford stands as your mother's personal bodyguard."

Edward nods, but it is obvious that his eyes are upon Cromwell's swords, so he carefully draws one, "This sword is forged from the finest steel, mixed with silver - for infernal beings cannot endure the bite of silver. This, and its twin, have together saved this Kingdom from all who would come against it, and they shall continue to do so." He pauses, then looks directly at the Prince, "You have my sworn word, Highness, sworn upon these blades, that my loyalty to you shall be as absolute as it has been to your father, and to your mother. For as long as I am able, I shall wield them for your protection and safety - and, if the time comes when I can no longer do so, then another shall come to take my place, and their loyalty shall be as trustworthy as mine."

I hate it when he speaks of such things - I have not forgotten that ghastly time when I thought he was doomed to die upon the block. It is not only this Kingdom that would be rendered bereft by his loss.

Edward sits quietly and takes in Cromwell's words, then nods, "I accept your promise, my Lord Cromwell. I trust you, and you, my Lord Rich. As I trust my uncle and my mother."

"You shall learn more in good time, Edward." Jane finishes, quietly, "There is much to take in - but be assured that you shall be advised of all things that you should know on matters of this nature. But I must ask you to remain silent upon such matters at all times unless you are in our company at a meeting such as this."

The boy nods, "Yes, mother. I give you my word."

God - he's only eight, and even as he speaks, I am quite convinced that he shall not let the secret slip.

Jane turns to me, "Have you received anything from the House?"

I shake my head, "At present, matters are quiet. The Spies have not uncovered anything of concern to us; so we remain vigilant as always."

"I have not detected ichor at any time for nearly five months, Majesty." Cromwell adds, "Though I undertake regular searches, to be sure I miss nothing. I have no wish for the reappearance of a revenant, or a ravener, to be announced through the discovery of their activities, rather than their odour."

"Lady Rochford," Jane says, then, "Could you escort his Highness back to his quarters, please?"

Rather than protest at being asked to leave - as it's quite clear that matters are not concluded - Edward rises to his feet, prompting us to do the same, and follows her as she departs.

"Forgive me for bringing him here, Gentlemen." Jane says, a little contritely, "I feel it is important that we demonstrate your loyalty to him at the earliest opportunity, however. In a world such as this, few are to be trusted - and we have all learned from harsh experience that those who _are_ trustworthy can be harmed by those who are _not_. The sooner Edward understands that your loyalty to him is absolute and unimpeachable, the better. I do not, however, wish for him to be present any longer - as we must now discuss matters that would be considered treasonous."

Cromwell nods, "It is clear that those who had supposedly departed from Court are now returning in the light of the King's growing infirmity. For I note that Norfolk has emerged from his previous retirement, and is consorting with Surrey in hopes of being foremost in any new Council. I have no doubt that he aims to be Lord Protector if he can manage it. Though I think Northumberland might have something to say about it. He is nothing if not ambitious."

"Even though there shall be no need for one." I add, crossly, "The presence of a Queen seems not to dent their aspirations."

Suffolk sighs, "Indeed so. The fear of a woman upon the throne, even as a Regent, is strong - for, though Queen Katherine proved most skilled when called upon to serve the Realm, it was while her husband lived, and was set to return from abroad. We have seen no Queen Regnant in this realm. The only woman who tried found herself deposed, and then came years of war."

"How is his Majesty?" I ask, then; a little nervous of the answer.

"Much the same as he has been these few weeks past, my Lord." Queen Jane answers, sadly, "He is no better, and no worse. But I think we are all aware that he shall not live to see Edward achieve his majority. Not if he does not moderate his behaviour - and it is too late now, I fear."

"I shall continue to examine the intent of our fellow Councillors;" Suffolk advises, "We need to ensure a good balance of men who can serve King and Realm equally, with minimal self-interest."

"That shall be an interesting task." Cromwell smiles wryly, "For who is not self-interested here?"

Indeed.

* * *

The atmosphere is again unnerving, for the King's temper is once more inflamed by his hideous legs. Their appalling reek clashes horribly with the strong scent that he is wearing in a desperate attempt to mask that foul miasma, but such measures have long since ceased to be effective; if, indeed, they ever were in the first place.

The Privy Council meeting is conducted as swiftly and with as little contention as possible. Even Surrey seems unwilling to throw his weight around, despite his obvious disdain for those of lesser blood than his. In his current mood, King Henry might well decide that something as little as an outbreak of snobbery be sufficient reason to send a man to the Tower.

Given the sense of tension, it is no surprise to me that we still fail to discuss that which is of the utmost importance. We know that Edward shall succeed, followed by his heirs male. Failing that, Hal shall rule, and then _his_ heirs male. If he should miscarry, then Elizabeth shall do so - though most are convinced that this eventuality shall not come to pass. Perhaps it is just as well, for despite his determination to refer to her as 'Princess' once more, this has not been confirmed in law, and the King has done nothing at all to amend her legitimacy. As he cannot call Mary legitimate without declaring Elizabeth a bastard - and _vice versa_ \- he prefers to ignore it entirely.

While this is obvious to all, what is not is how the Realm shall be governed should Edward come to the throne while still a minor. That, above all, needs to be settled by the Council - not our 'Prince's Council' - and it cannot be, for his Majesty will not countenance the suggestion that he shall die before Edward is old enough to rule in his own right. Despite the absurdity of the situation, I cannot help but feel sympathy for the King. After all, he knows what follows when a King dies with only a child to succeed him; and his fear of initiating such a calamity himself is almost as great an assault upon his pride as the fear that he would never have a son at all.

And so, in the absence of sensible discussion with the Privy Council, Cromwell and I discuss the matter with Hertford, Suffolk and her Majesty. It should not be so; but with things as they are, it is that or nothing.

As we depart from the Council chamber with another set of tasks to undertake that do not include the succession, I know that Cromwell's frustration is at least as great as mine. His intent to ensure order in the Realm is being greatly hampered by the King's intransigence, and our fear of stirring his anger if we challenge it. Even Cromwell does not dare - for the favour that he currently holds could dissipate in a heartbeat. He learned that lesson well.

As we repair to his office, he offers me a glass of sack, and I seat myself opposite him as he settles behind his cluttered desk, "We must act, I fear, Richie." He sighs, "I shall raise it with her Majesty, and I suspect she shall agree with me. This is not a task for Mr Whorwood - I would trust no one other than you to draft the Bill that shall set out the future governance of the Realm during his Highness's minority."

While I am somewhat flattered by his faith in me, I know the risk that I shall be taking, "I think it best that I do so at Grant's Place, then. If nothing else, it shall give me the opportunity to introduce Mr Cecil to the Library."

Cromwell looks surprised, "You have approached him, then?"

"Not yet - but his thirst for knowledge and his enjoyment of pure research is so clear to me that I think I shall have little difficulty in persuading him to undertake the task."

He smiles, "I think it best that we speak to him together, then. Better to have the entire horror in one dose than to grant him bitter spoonfuls over a longer time. I am quite convinced that he shall struggle to accept what we must tell him." He pauses, then continues, "Invite him to join us for supper tonight. If he is as talented as you think - and Mr Wriothesley concurs - then it would be appropriate for him to be introduced to me even if not as a prospective apprentice Second. It is most remiss of me not to have met with him already."

* * *

Like most who have not met the Lord Chancellor, Cecil is somewhat nervous. Despite his arrest and imprisonment, Cromwell seems able to command such awe that most view him with a sense of minor fear. He has the favour of the King - and, equally, regained it after losing it. So few have achieved such a feat that most are convinced that he is now absolutely safe - particularly given his Majesty's pretence that the entire episode was staged to bring down a rogue ambassador.

To those who see him only as the man who brought down a Queen, he is an intimidating figure, and Cecil is no exception. Those of us who know him personally, however, see him in an altogether different light, for he is good humoured, kind and an excellent host. Now Cecil is to become a member of that privileged band; though, as yet, he knows it not.

"Forgive me for asking, my Lord." Cecil says, as we stroll through the corridors to Cromwell's fine apartments, "Why would the Lord Chancellor wish to sup with a newly arrived clerk?"

"He has his reasons, Mr Cecil," I keep my answer bland, for the passageways are busy with people, "your talent is such that it has caught his attention, and he wishes to discuss more specific tasks with you; tasks that he considers you to be suitably skilled to undertake."

He looks very pleased at this - but not conceitedly so, thank God.

We are admitted to Cromwell's apartments by James, his still rather bemused manservant. The main chamber is scented with the appetising aroma of roasted mutton and herbs, and I note that Cromwell has not dressed too formally. In fact, he appears to be in one of his hunting outfits. God, is he going to start Cecil's apprenticeship tonight, then?

Ignoring my startled expression, Cromwell indicates a seat, "Good evening, Mr Cecil - welcome. Please be seated."

Cecil stammers his thanks and does as bid; this is clearly not what he has been expecting.

"I am given to understand that you show a great deal of talent as an administrator and researcher, Mr Cecil." Cromwell continues as James sets to work carving the mutton, "Consequently, upon the advice of my Lord Rich, I wish to discuss a matter of importance with you. One that offers you the opportunity to step forth and serve your King, and the Realm. Tell me; what do you know of me?"

I am startled by such an immediate question, but not half as much as Cecil, who pauses to think, "I…er…" his voice trails off, then he clears his throat and tries again, "I know that you are regarded well by some, but ill by others, your Grace." He begins, diplomatically, "For myself, I think you to be a man of great ability, and I truly hope that I can be as loyal a servant to the Realm as his Majesty considers you to be."

"And what if I told you that I was a warrior against the forces of Darkness?"

"I should think you to be jesting with me, your Grace." Cecil chuckles, then goes rather still as he sees the steadiness of Cromwell's gaze, and realises that he is actually perfectly serious. Then again, the suddenness with which Cromwell has stated what he is has rather startled me.

"Forgive my abruptness, Mr Cecil," Cromwell sighs, sadly, "I should have preferred it if we could have approached this matter more gently; but I have good reason to do so."

I have heard him relate this story many times, now, but nonetheless it still fascinates me. As Suffolk did mere weeks ago, Cecil leans in, quite captivated by the tale; though he remains sceptical. Again, it is the presence of the magnificent Raven blades that finally induces belief, albeit rather grudging.

"Forgive me, your Grace," he says, eventually, "but I am at something of a loss as to why you have told me this."

And so I take up the tale, "All Silver Swords assigned to the Royal Courts are assisted by a Second, Mr Cecil. Their role is to seek out information pertinent to the work of their Silver Sword, and that is my task. I am Thomas's Second - and, while it is my primary duty to work with him to identify threats and combat them, it is also my duty to seek out and train an apprentice. My first apprentice is now at work in Iberia, working in the Court of King Miguel and Queen Maria. I am hopeful that, should you agree to it, you shall assume that place. Your talent for research is remarkable, and I feel it would be a waste of that talent if it were not put to use in the service of the Kingdom against darkness. You deserve to be more than a mere petty politician."

Now he is staring at me; and I find myself nervous that we have moved too quickly, and that he shall flee from us. But instead, he sits back in his chair, deep in thought. Eventually, he looks up again, "You stated that there was a good reason for granting me so much information in so short a time. What might it be, your Grace?"

"Proof that what I tell you is true, Mr Cecil." Cromwell turns to me, "For the first time in many months, I detected ichor this evening. Thus we must hunt. Richie, I shall ask James to fetch your sword."

I look at him, pointedly, " _Lezviye k moyey ruke_." In an instant, my sword is in my hand. I do not have to look to know that Cecil is staring at me in astonishment.

"Or, you can summon your sword, and we can depart as soon as we have supped." Cromwell smiles.

* * *

Our excursion into the dark corridors of the Palace always raise memories for me of my first emergence into the world of demons and darkness; even more so this night, as we have a companion with us whose nervousness is absolutely akin to mine on the occasion of my first hunt all those years ago. The only difference is the location; my first hunt took place in Hampton Court.

It is also a reflection of Cromwell's detection of ichor that I am armed with my sword; for I should not have done so if there was no risk of discovering a demon. Behind me, Cecil is distinctly uncomfortable; for he has never seen me armed with anything more deadly than a quill. He is, however, silent - and, to my mild embarrassment, far more adept at moving surreptitiously than I have ever been.

Fortunately, our quarry is not difficult to find - for we still know the places where they are most likely to lurk - and Cromwell quietly draws his sword as the ravener snuffles here and there in search of prey. Even my own senses are sharpening again, for I, too, have fought creatures such as these, and I find myself tensing as he does.

Before he advances into the small court where the ravener is lurking, Cromwell turns to Cecil, "Remain out of sight," he whispers, almost inaudibly, "Allow us to deal with the matter." His eyes wide at the sight of the ghastly creature, he does not object. Cromwell exchanges a glance with me, and I know - from long experience - that he wishes for me to remain out of the fight and protect our unarmed companion should the need arise. My primary concern now is that Cecil shall start asking questions at a time when silence is essential; but again, he says nothing; his eyes only upon Cromwell's approach.

As I was on that first night, I am astounded at how easily Cromwell moves; and that look of exhilaration upon his face. And yet…now that I see him in the dubious light of the torches, Wyatt's words return to me. Yes - he is indeed greying at the temples now, his hair whitening with age, and equally those additional years are carved into his face. No - I will _not_ think of that. Not now - not at all. He is moving easily, and silently - and then at last the ravener sees him.

Like most of its kind, it does not see him for what he is; keen only upon the appearance of what it assumes to be prey. Its only action is to hiss viciously at the loss of the element of surprise; and from that moment, it is doomed. The fight thus takes merely moments - and the creature is soon dust.

"There." Cromwell says, quietly, as he returns to us, "Thus we are at peace again - though I am surprised to see one after such a long time. I cannot help but wonder if it is owing to a settlement amongst those of higher stock in the demonic realms."

Even I am unnerved by this, "Do you think it might be, Thomas? That, we do not need."

"I hope not," He admits, "for with matters as they are, I should prefer our problems to be related solely to the future of the realm in political terms. I suspect, however, that this was a rogue aberration. Unless more appear in the coming days, I think we shall be safe for the time being."

Our journey back to Cromwell's apartments is undertaken in silence; but James has ensured that there is a flagon of warmed cider awaiting our return, with a meat pasty for us to share should we be hungry.

"There is much to learn, Mr Cecil," Cromwell advises as he pours out the cider, and divides the pasty, "While I am sure that the risk of a demonic incursion remains low, neither Lord Rich nor myself shall remain here forever; thus we must make preparations for the future. While the man who shall replace me is in training in Milan, there is no such preparation for that new man's Second. Based upon Mr Rich's recommendation, I would concur with him that you possess the aptitude to become a Second of great skill."

"Would I be obliged to take up arms?" Cecil asks, doubtfully, "I have no skill with weapons."

"It is not essential." I advise, "I am rather unusual, for the battle against Lamashtu required me to do so, and I feel no shame in admitting that my ability with a ranged weapon is so poor as to be nonexistent. If it is not your preference to fight, then that is no matter - for our role as Second is primarily to offer learned support."

"I hope you do not think me to be cowardly, my Lord," he admits, "I have no fear of hard work, or of deep study of ancient documents and tracts. If that is your primary requirement of me, then I should be honoured to accept the challenge."

"In which case," I smile at him, pleased at his choice, "If it is possible for us to be absent on the morrow, Thomas, I shall introduce Mr Cecil to the Library."

"An excellent idea." Cromwell agrees, "Leave Mr Wriothesley to me."

The news that greets me the following morning is both welcome, and unwelcome. While it is good to know that we are finally to escape the reek and foulness that is encroaching ever more determinedly upon the palace, the decision that we shall move to Hampton Court is less so. I have far less time than I should have liked to introduce Cecil to the Library; so it is just as well that we are to go to Grant's Place today. Wriothesley is not pleased at this news; and again I feel that odd chill down my spine. Much as I have every right to discomfit him, I do not like to do so - and yet I cannot work out why I feel that way.

That is, however, of no moment. Today, the grooms are waiting in the mews, Adrian saddled and ready for me, and I note Cecil approaching as I mount up. While I am glad of his determined acceptance of our offer to become an apprentice Second, as I recalled my own doubts, I could not help but wonder if he would join me. John, my manservant, has already arranged for some of Cecil's effects to be transferred across to Grant's Place, as I do not intend to return until tomorrow at the earliest.

"How long have you been his Grace's Second, my Lord?" Cecil asks me as we make our slow way along the Strand towards Cheapside.

"Some nine years, Mr Cecil." I reply, "Though my introduction to this world was far harsher, for it was rather sprung upon me when I found myself confronted by his Grace all but felled by a stab-wound. The remedy for that was shocking, and filled me with both horror and fear. I wish that I could tell you that this path is an easy one - but it is not. It may be that you shall come to regret accepting our offer; though I truly hope not. While I have endured pain, great fear, and suffering as a result of my calling, I have no regrets - for I have gained far more than I have ever lost."

Cecil nods, "I am aware of your reputation, my Lord; but also of your great friendship with his Grace. For I am told that there was once a time when you both disliked and resented him."

"There was indeed." I agree, "I have worked hard to secure my poor reputation, Mr Cecil; for it serves me well. I am disliked, and therefore few attempt to gain preferment through association with me. Oh, they offer bribes, of course, which I accept - for I am not fool enough to turn down such gifts, even if I do not keep them for myself. But there was a time when I was as venal as any other in this poisonous place, but I was also desperately lonely - though I knew it not. I was not aware that his Grace's loneliness was equal to mine, for his is not a path that should be travelled alone. When I discovered it, my own became too much to bear, and I stepped forth to take my place at his side. He has become the greatest friend I have ever known, and I would give my life for his without hesitation."

"There is much to learn, is there not?"

"I fear so." I admit, "Though I was obliged to learn alone, and thus made many errors. My hope is that you shall learn from my errors as much as from that which lies within the Library. I have made many mistakes as I have learned how to be what I am; so I shall speak to you of them so that you may learn from them and thus not repeat them. You are already well acquainted with the languages of the papers held at Grant's Place, so my first interest is to introduce you to his Eminence's great index."

"Eminence?" Of course - he does not yet know who built that wondrous repository.

"The late Cardinal Wolsey." I wait for his reaction, and I am not disappointed.

" _Wolsey_?"

"Everyone is always so surprised." I smile, "As I was."

Our conversation moves on to more neutral matters as we make our way past St Pauls. I am pleased to find that Cecil is a genial, witty individual, and it shall not be difficult to be friends with him. He is naturally intelligent, and keen to absorb all the information he can lay his hands upon, but he is also very politically astute, "Where do you stand in the matter of the succession, my Lord?"

"On a precipice, I fear." I admit, ruefully, "While his Majesty is so loath to consider that his health is not great, and the chances of his seeing his son's majority slim to none, we are helpless."

"I do not doubt, however, that both you, and the Lord Chancellor, have plans, however."

"That is something to be considered when we reach our destination, Mr Cecil." I look across to him, "But, as you have doubtless noticed, his Grace and I refer to one another by our first names when we are in private. As you are now a member of our small group, I consider that privilege to be extended to you. Please, do not call me 'my Lord' unless we are in public. I am Richard."

"I should be honoured if you would do me the same courtesy, Richard." He responds, though still with rather formal courtesy. It is, of course, easier for me.

* * *

As I hoped, Cecil's reaction to the Library is one of wonder and excitement. Like me, he is truly fascinated by the sheer quantity of knowledge contained in that great cellar, though he, like me, is rather concerned that there is now a rather worrying shortage of space for it all, "There is a great deal of disorder, Richard. There are not enough shelves to contain all of these new papers and books. It seems to me that you require one who can dedicate appropriate time to review the contents of this remarkable collection."

 _He is right, Richard. This cannot continue, and you do not have the time to dedicate to the task._

Ah. I wondered how long it would take for Wolsey to comment. That said, it has been along time since we last conversed; the need to do so is far less these days.

"Alas, I agree, William." I admit - though I admit it as much to Wolsey as to Cecil, "But I cannot spare the time."

"I think that I could; nay, that I should. If I am to learn to support a Silver Sword through skill and knowledge, then where better to start than here?"

That, I did not expect, "I would not force such a position upon you, William. Your talents are of equal use to us at Court."

"Perhaps so - but then, perhaps not. There are many boxes here that remain sealed, for did you not tell me that Mistress Dawson does not involve herself in your work?"

That's true, of course. Goodwife Dawson, while frail these days, still guards this house like a lion, but she remains ignorant of its greatest secret. She cannot act as an archivist for us as she has no knowledge of Latin, or Greek. Additionally, her ability to read and examine documents is limited to household accounts. I could not ask her to undertake a task such as this. Is this the gift that we have been given? A man who can learn his way around the world of the Silver Sword through Wolsey's library? That would certainly be helpful.

 _Do it, Richard. He has the wherewithal to learn all that he needs to by working here, and his position at Court is not yet reliant upon his presence. Association with you and Thomas can remedy that when the time comes._

"This was not my initial plan, William," I admit, "but if you are content to do so, would you be willing to undertake the work required here? I fear it could lead to your career at court being stalled for years to come; and that may be a price you would not be keen to pay."

"I think it likely that I shall serve England better by working in this Library than in the Offices at Whitehall. I am well aware that my presence shall not be required if the Court removes to Hampton, for there shall not be room for a minor official such as I. I am too recently arrived."

That is true - only those of us who are most highly placed in the Government of the Kingdom travel with the Court; those who are of lesser state tend to remain in the main offices, so our situation could not be better. Thus Cecil can work in the Offices as he should, and also commence work in the Library with the papers that require work, "That sounds like an excellent plan, William." I agree with him, "Come, I shall show you how the indexing system operates; then you shall be in a position to begin cataloguing the newest material. Only the most urgent papers come to me personally, so the lack of them is always good news."

To my surprise, Cecil is clearly relishing the opportunity to set to work in the Library, almost to the point that he is keen to remain here while I return to Whitehall alone. That said, I have a great deal of work to do, drafting the proposed plan for the succession. This is the only safe place to do it, and I have Cecil to aid me. Thus, I think, I shall make a start on that in the morning.


	4. An Arrogant Earl

Chapter Four

 _An Arrogant Earl_

I have missed being here; seated in the chamber that contains the secret door to my library. I have always enjoyed the peace of this room, sunlight filtering in through the diamond panes of the windows at my back, the air scented by the herbs in the garden beyond. Peace seems to be something that eludes me so much, even in the years after the destruction of Lamashtu, as I am surrounded by petty politics and the endless risk of losing all that I have thanks to the fears and uncertainties of a King who trusts no one. At least here I can set my thoughts out on paper without fear of being seen or challenged. The only person who is present to witness my activity is now my apprentice, and believes as fervently as I do that the realm's best protection is the avoidance of disturbance and chaos.

Cecil emerges from the Library with a small coffer that is clearly still sealed, "I have spent much of this morning examining the structure of the Index, Richard. I think I am gaining a reasonable understanding of how it operates."

I am not surprised to hear this; whether I like it or not, Cecil's ability to assimilate and absorb information is far faster than mine, and much as it rankles with my pride, I am grateful for it, "You should bear in mind that Wolsey and his clerk were not always consistent in the placing of their cross-references, William; we nearly came to disaster on one occasion thanks to that."

He nods, and carries the coffer across to the smaller table on the other side of the room. It is not a desk, and neither Cromwell nor I ever used it as such, but it is sufficient for his purposes, and he sets the coffer down, then returns to the Library to retrieve the enormous Index. As he sits down with it, I am embarrassed to feel a stab of jealousy. That is _my_ Index…

 _Oh, stop being such a fool, Rich._ Wolsey snaps at me, _Do you want an apprentice, or not?_

Despite the fact that he was just as bad when the Index came into my care; he is, of course, right and I shake myself briefly, before turning my attention back to the matter in hand.

We have the beginnings of a plan: no Lord Protector, the Queen as Regent supported by a Regency Council; but the legal structure upon which we shall pin that edifice must be absolutely secure, or all shall falter and crumble before our eyes. There are too many people who are keen to gain power for themselves for us to fail in our lawmaking. For the first time in many years - the entire enterprise seems to hinge upon me. I had forgotten that sense of uncertainty and near-fear. This time, however, the challenge of combating it is _absolutely_ in tune with my strengths, and the sense of nerves is tempered by excitement and anticipation. Old habits die hard.

I spend much of the morning making notes, consulting a large set of legal papers that I have brought with me for reference, crossing out, rewriting and thinking. That Edward shall rule is not in doubt - for he is the heir. The real difficulty is in ensuring that the Prince's royal prerogative is not usurped. After a long sequence of Kings that were, in all honesty, usurpers one after the other, I am determined to bring that to an end.

"William, are you busy?" My fingers are cramped, and I need a second opinion, "I have my first draft ready."

Cecil abandons his papers and crosses to join me, taking the proffered paper. While I have a strong grounding in Law, I have not taken a personal role in drafting laws for several years, so a more expert eye than mine is most useful. While his interest might not be as great as mine, Cecil has been at Gray's Inn for some time, and thus is more aware of ongoing legal cases than I. He concentrates upon the paper for an unnerving period of time, clearly reading, and re-reading, the various clauses with great care.

At length, he sets the paper down, "I think it covers all eventualities," he says, "I am not aware of any immediate matters of precedent in common law which might be problematic in its application."

"But?" I prompt. I cannot believe that there shall not be a 'but'.

"Only that I think we should word the opening preamble more carefully, Richard. This document must be approved by his Majesty and granted Royal assent. Given that this is the first draft, and the primary goal is to ensure that the intention and wording of the Act itself are of primary importance at this stage, I did not consider it necessary to raise the matter. I assumed it would be considered and addressed during the second draft."

I smile at him, "I was advised of your legendary diplomatic streak, Mr Cecil; indeed, I am most impressed. Come, sit alongside me, I am not convinced that we have rendered the legal clauses to be absolutely watertight. As Thomas is not here to aid me, and we are in a place where we can be absolutely frank about the King's health and likelihood to leave us sooner rather than later, I think that we should settle upon a second draft here and now, before we set it aside and dine."

By the time hunger drives us out of the chamber in search of a meal, we have the second draft. Cecil's aid has been quite invaluable, and I am even more grateful now that he came to Court at the time that he did. As we are soon to depart from London to spend the remainder of the summer, and possibly even as late as Christmastide, at Hampton Court, his willingness to remain behind and continue working in the Library is a greater help to me than I could have hoped for. While the spies shall still report to me, as they have been directed to, I can easily refer them back to Cecil in order to ensure that all papers are appropriately catalogued and archived. Yes - it really could not have been better.

Our dinner - a fine boiled ham with some of Goodwife Dawson's best manchet bread - is enlivened by further discussion of the world into which Cecil has now flung himself with something akin to the impulsiveness that drove me to do likewise nearly ten years ago. Remarkably, despite his obvious superior talent in terms of research and investigation, he regards me with a great deal more respect than I think I probably deserve. But then, unlike Cecil, I have taken up arms alongside my Silver Sword - something that most Seconds would not even consider doing. It is these adventures that fascinate him the most, and I am more than happy to reminisce. Times are changing, and sometimes it is comforting to remember that which has passed, and recall a time when we were not overshadowed by the impending demise of our King.

By the end of the day, I am more than content with the final draft of the Bill that we hope to put before Parliament - assuming Cromwell can persuade his Majesty to countenance the idea that he shall not see his son reach an age where he can accept the throne in his own right. Thus, Cecil and I spend the last hour or so of usable daylight examining the work that he has done to catalogue the papers in the coffer he fetched out this morning. He has done well - though I am relieved to find that he has made one or two errors that I must correct; I would have been most discountenanced to have been outstripped intellectually by my own apprentice on the first day that he took up the post. My character might have improved beyond measure in the years since I became a Second, but I am not _that_ improved.

Our work complete, I lock that vital draft bill in a small box and set it in the Library alongside the reading stand. There it shall be safe from discovery, but ready to be retrieved when the time comes; for come, it shall. Until then however, there are other matters to be undertaken. I shall be happy to leave Cecil here with the Library, while I return to Whitehall to prepare for our move out of London.

* * *

Wriothesley is hunched over his desk, working through lists that shall determine which papers are to remain at Whitehall to be archived, and which are to come to Hampton Court. While many departments shall remain at Whitehall, those which are closest to the day-to-day workings of Government still travel with the King. The entire business is much more carefully organised these days, as Cromwell's efforts to reform matters of Governance have led to a sequence of departments, each responsible for specific tasks. Most of these can remain at Whitehall, reporting to him while he is at Hampton Court, but others must be present where he and I go, and so the extensive organising to work out what must come with us, and what can stay.

As the weather is quite warm, it is our intention to ride to Hampton, though the King's discomfort aboard a horse means that he shall travel with his family by barge, as will many others where they can. Riding in carriages might appear a more pleasant method of travel, but I certainly would not relish most of the day being rattled violently in a wooden box, no matter how comfortably upholstered the seats might be. Most of the clerks shall be obliged to do so, and none of them look forward to such a journey.

My own papers tidied and organised, there is little else to keep me, so I plan to return to my apartments to irritate John by interfering and attempting to 'help' as he packs my personal effects. While Cromwell and I shall not depart for another two or three days, most of my property shall be packed up and loaded onto a barge tomorrow along with coffers belonging to other highly-placed Courtiers, ready to for my arrival. I am, therefore, not surprised to find my quarters in a fearful state of disarray; but I _am_ surprised to find that John has a note for me from the Master of the Horse requesting my presence in the Mews.

I am surprised to find that Sir Anthony Browne is present personally, alongside the chief of the Grooms. As the title of Master of the Horse tends to be ceremonial rather than practical, his presence is quite startling, "Is there a problem, Sir Anthony?"

"I was present by chance, my Lord - and I thought it best that you be informed immediately." He sighs, "I am afraid the grooms have found that your horse is in a state of considerable distress; it appears that he has developed a congestion in his lungs."

While I have grown in skill as a rider, and now maintain a well stocked stable, I only have one horse at Court, that steady, well governed gelding Adrian, who I purchased from the Royal stables as no other courtier would ride such a placid beast, and named after a Pope. He is my favourite, and I feel a cold chill in the pit of my stomach - for I suspect that I have been called because there is a painful choice to be made.

To my dismay, once in the stall, I can see immediately that my faithful Adrian is indeed in great distress, and he is down - his breathing laboured and weak. While the Ostlers would have acted to end his misery immediately had he been one of the Royal Stable; he is not and thus they must consult me. God, I wish that they had not.

I wish I was alone; for I can already feel a sense of deep, painful grief that I Have no desire to put on display for people who do not know me. Slowly, I turn to Browne, "Might I have some time to think, please? I know what must be done…" my voice catches. Damn - I had hoped that I could avoid that…

His expression sympathetic, Browne nods, and ushers the chief Groom out. On my own, I sink down beside my fallen horse, and stroke his neck gently, "We had such times, did we not, Adrian? You have been a truly faithful beast, and…" and then I cannot stop myself; slumping over the gelding's neck to sob in misery at the loss that is to come, and must be at my instigation. I feel a fool, but this good horse has been as much of a companion in my adventuring as any man, and now I must bring him to his death.

Somewhere behind me, I hear footsteps, and then there is a hand on my shoulder, "I have just been told, Richie. I am truly sorry."

Cromwell. Of course he would come - for I am in pain, and he has never abandoned me when I am in pain.

"Forgive me, Thomas," I try to speak firmly, but the words come out in an embarrassing series of hiccups, "I am being a child."

"As I should be if this were Clement, and you had come to my side." He advises, kindly, "Adrian has been a good horse."

I nod, but sit silently for a while, stroking Adrian's neck. I almost cannot bear to accept what must happen now, but to delay any longer is merely cruelty. My horse is suffering, and there is no remedy. Thus, he should be allowed to go, "I should call the Groom…"

"I shall see to it." Cromwell offers, "You stay with Adrian."

The groom, and Cromwell attempt to persuade me to leave while the matter is dealt with, but I cannot do it. Instead, I remain where I am, speaking softly to my good horse, and forcing myself not to look as the groom carefully approaches from behind Adrian's head, and with remarkable efficiency, crouches down and dispatches the sick beast with a nail in the skull. Unable to move, I stay on the floor, heedless of the ruin of my clothing in the rather befouled straw. This is ridiculous…I am mourning for a horse…

"Come, Richie." Cromwell sets his hand upon my shoulder again, "Let the Grooms see to him. There is nothing more that you can do now."

I do as bid, and we return to Cromwell's quarters, where he sits me down with a cup of sack, and I spend some time regaining my composure. Now is not the time to be foolishly grieving for a horse; I can do that once the move is complete. Except now I have no horse to ride…

"John has sent word to your groom at St Bartholomew's, Richie." Cromwell advises, seating himself opposite with another glass, "He shall send across one of your other horses later today."

How remarkable that people consider him to be a cold, ruthless creature with no feelings. Yes, there are times when he is - but that is not all that he is, not even remotely; for here he is, sitting alongside me and offering me his moral support as I grieve for a horse. And to think that there was a time when I would have been quite content to have no true friends at all. What a dreadfully miserable figure I would have been.

"Forgive me, Thomas." I feel altogether less wretched now, "I have been a fool, but I am grateful for your kindness. I have interrupted your work, have I not?"

"Sometimes there are more important things than work, Richie." He smiles, "It took me a long time to learn that lesson; I think, to a degree, that it was thanks to you that I learned it."

"Maybe so, but I fear we cannot set work aside any longer, Thomas. Not if we are to complete the move to Hampton Court on time."

"Alas." His smile becomes a wider grin, "That would indeed be a calamity."

* * *

The late summer weather has been remarkably kind - balmy without being too hot, but not too cold either. No longer able to hunt, as even his great French horse cannot carry him so far these days, the King instead watches as others sport for his entertainment. They joust in the great tiltyard, risking their lives for his pleasure, or play tennis in the court that he built so many years ago to play the game himself. The Court is there today, watching as some of the young bloods participate in a hard-fought match that the King watches avidly, for his expertise is such that an error is never missed, and is guaranteed to bring royal scorn down upon the perpetrator's head.

One of the players is newly arrived at court - the fourth of Northumberland's sons; whose name I can never remember, Richard? Robert? Yes - Robert. His two elder brothers are regularly here now, though his eldest is not. The Duke's second son, John, and third, Ambrose, are doing what they can to forge careers for themselves given that they shall not inherit their father's estate. It seems that Robert is also intent upon that great gamble that is politics in England; and what better way to do so than excelling in a sport at which the King himself once excelled?

I have no interest in tennis, any more than I have in the joust, so I do not spend much time at the court. I have little enough to myself as it is, so my visits are generally brief, and related to work. Cromwell has never darkened the doors of this particular building - and thus I am here alone, and only because I have some papers that the King should see, and which cannot wait.

Needless to say, the King is not pleased to have matters of government interrupting his pleasure, but at least he does not strike out at me; though I think this is more because he lacks the energy than for any other reason. He tires so easily these days. Instead, he curses me loudly, and dismisses me without thanks - but then, I expected nothing else, and I am equally unsurprised by the snide glances of those who spend equal time at the King's side rather than in the offices. After all, were I not so busy in the offices, and not the man I am now, then I have no doubt that I should be among them.

Her Majesty is not present at the game, for she has no liking for it. Instead, she is with her sons and Elizabeth, as Edward is still at court. Now that we are at Hampton, of course, it would be less of a journey between the palaces were he to return to his own household, but Queen Jane is is nothing if not determined to keep her sons at her side as long as she can. Despite the pressure of convention, and the raised eyebrows of those who consider her actions to be overly sentimental, there is no denying that remaining with his immediate family is proving beneficial to the Prince. If only he could escape the confines of the palace walls, however, for the King will not countenance any excursion that might place his son at risk - however minor.

It seems that I am not the only one concerned at this lack of fresh air and exercise, for Hertford raises it as we gather in the Queen's Privy Chamber for our regular Queen's Council meeting, "Forgive my presumption, Sister, but I am becoming concerned at his Highness's wellbeing. He seems to be rather pale, and even his games with his brother and sister in the gardens seem not to have brought a blush to his cheeks. It is not healthy for a child to be so confined - particularly a young prince. How is he to learn the arts of war?"

Queen Jane smiles, "I should prefer to avoid war, Brother, but I, too am concerned. My husband is most fearful of losing his two children, for he has seen too many babes lost before they have become men. His requirements for the welfare of both Ned and Hal required an astonishing degree of cleanliness - and even now he will not agree to any activity that might place his son in even the slightest danger."

"I am in agreement with his Grace." Cromwell sighs, "While the welfare of his Highness is indeed of paramount importance to the Realm, it should not be at the expense of his overall health. Perhaps it might be possible for him to be able to ride out in the Park with a few trusted members of the Court? Such as his uncle, and - if it can be arranged - two well armed men of your inner circle."

We all share a few smirks - such an oblique description of himself and me.

Hertford nods, approvingly, "I would consider that to be suitable - for his Highness needs to spend time with those who are most intent upon his safe succession. Better to learn now that the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal are the most trustworthy of all his servants than to find out almost too late - as I did."

"He shall never agree to it." Suffolk sighs, sadly, "No matter how trustworthy his companions might be, the risk of the Prince being injured, or waylaid, is ever present in his Majesty's mind. I fear that he would willingly, if unintentionally, damage his son's health out of fear for his safety."

"We can but try, I think." Her Majesty says, "I have long learned, as have we all, that the best way to bend the King to your will is to persuade him that in doing so, he is merely acting upon his own idea. See if you can persuade him, Edward; it is not at all healthy for the Prince to be enclosed within the walls of the palace, with only the Gardens to explore."

"If need be," Suffolk adds, "I shall offer my support."

Hertford nods, gratefully. With that decided, we move on to other matters.

* * *

Our attempt to get Prince Edward out into the fresh air of Home Park is almost felled at the first hurdle the following morning, when Hertford requests consent for us to do so. The King is immediately against the idea, as his son is now in his direct control, and his absolute conviction that something dreadful shall happen to the child if he is not watched at all times has become all consuming.

"Absolutely not!" He shouts, loud enough for us to hear him beyond the curtain that separates his most private chamber from the Privy Chamber, "I shall not put my son at risk!"

We do not hear Hertford's reply, as it is spoken, not shouted. I have no doubt that he is soothing, and assuring his King that, as the child's uncle, he wishes no harm to come to the boy - and will take every care to ensure his safety. God above, Edward has been trapped indoors from the moment he arrived at the palace; his daily rides in the Park at Windsor stolen away from him in the King's fear of those who might wish to steal him and place him in their thrall. Surely it is not too much to ask to allow him just a hint of freedom? If we do not, then what shall happen when the time comes that he can make such decisions for himself?

After much argument, however, Hertford talks the King round - presumably by suggesting that a lack of fresh air, and being cooped up in a stuffy suite of rooms is hardly better for his health than any ailment that might be lurking outside. Finally, he emerges, though his victory is a small one: the King has insisted that we be accompanied by a virtual battalion of palace guards. So much for a small ride with family and friends.

"He fears for the safety of the Prince," Hertford sighs, though this is something that we all know full well, "but in doing so, I fear that he might bring about that which he fears the most."

Cromwell nods, "He has been so shielded from infirmities that he has no means to combat them should they strike him. It is most unfortunate - but then again, it is equally possible that such an illness might have struck him yet - so who can say whether it has been the right thing to do? At least we can escort him out into the sunshine for a time. He shall be pleased to do so, I think."

"I should have preferred it if we could have been less heavily escorted." Hertford adds, "Such a large number of guards can serve only to show people that the prince is riding abroad. I should have preferred it had he been granted at least a pretence of anonymity."

Cromwell nods, "I shall speak to the Captain," he advises, "Thus they shall follow at a discreet distance and behave as though they are engaging in some form of riding practice."

The days when I was incapable of riding well have long gone, thanks to Cromwell's patient tuition, and thus the Prince rides out with his uncle at his side, and the two highest Courtiers in the land to his rear. My new horse - Urban - is considerably more mettlesome than Adrian was; perhaps a reflection of my increased prowess in the saddle. Cromwell has also procured a new beast, Clement having been retired to pasture in the large parkland around Austin Friars, and he has continued, as I have, our rather silly practice of naming our horses after Popes. This new animal being called Benedict.

Edward knows our calling, and thus shows no surprise at the twin swords fixed to Cromwell's saddle, though he has never seen the Damask blade, and is quite startled to see it across my back. To keep all even more secure, Cromwell has also added his wheellock pistols; but I doubt that we shall need them. With a large squadron of cavalry to our rear, apparently practising pacing and formations, there is nothing that I can think of that might come at us with anything approaching success.

As we move out over the parkland at a brisk trot, the brightening of the Prince's expression is quite heartwarming. He is but a child, yet is required to think and act like a Man - and a Royal man, too - but now, with us, he can be a boy again, riding with his Uncle, and two friends. As we go, a pheasant cackles in a nearby stand of trees, and a hare flees away across the grassland.

"If only I had brought a bow!" Edward cries, gaily, as he watches the wild animals fleeing in all directions at our approach. I know that Cromwell used to enjoy falconry when he had the time to indulge, but not being given to bringing innocent creatures out of the sky, or off the ground, however, I am glad that the prince has not brought weapons to hunt with - though I note that there is something bulging in Cromwell's saddlebag, so perhaps he has planned for us to remain out for longer than anticipated.

Sure enough, as the day grows warmer and the sun reaches its zenith, we halt in a wooded copse, our escort close enough to come to our aid but far enough away not to intrude, and seat ourselves on the ground in a rather ungainly manner. Reaching into the saddlebag, Cromwell produces a large venison pasty wrapped in a cloth - more than enough for us to share - and a bottle that contains weak ale alongside a stack of wooden cups. I suspect that, had the Prince not been present, it should have been claret - but he is, after all, a child.

Having never been given the opportunity to indulge in such a pastime as this - sharing a meal in the field - Edward is delighted, "Tell me of your exploits, my Lord Cromwell," He asks, happily, "For Mother has told me only what she feels I should know."

There are many at Court who believe that Cromwell has no heart, or no soul - possibly both - so Hertford is quite astonished at the open, friendly manner of the Lord Chancellor with the youth. For this short time, he is just Thomas Cromwell, and the boy is just Edward Tudor - and he regales the child with the story of his early days as a Silver Sword under the care of Thomas Wolsey. I have no doubt that many of his adventures in those days were harsh, and violent - but he takes great pains to offer tales of high adventure, and not a few comical mishaps, that Edward finds deeply amusing. I imagine it is quite an education for the elder Seymour to see someone he nearly drove to the block prove himself to be entirely unlike the man he is considered to be.

Then I am obliged to retrieve my sword, for Edward has never seen it. He knows why I have it, but his expression of wonder as he examines the intricate pattern of the blade is quite heartwarming, for it is the fascination of a child, not a Prince. God help us - we must keep this child secure, and keep him from being turned into something dreadful by those who would try to rule through him. He could be a greater King than his father - or he could be a nightmarish despot. Much revolves around how his future is overseen. Despite myself, I find myself again making a firm commitment in my own mind that I shall give my all to ensure that we give this boy the chance to be a boy as much as a prince. We cannot risk him coming to the Crown unprepared - but if we push him too hard…

"Come, Nephew." Hertford says, after a while, "We must away - your father shall be concerned if we stay out too long."

Edward does not complain, though it is impossible to miss his expression as his face falls somewhat. At least, however, he has spent some of this day away from the cares of his position.

As we ride back, Cromwell allows Benedict to slow a little, causing Hertford and the Prince to travel a few paces ahead, "I think we should do what we can to persuade his Majesty to allow more excursions such as this. The Prince's cheeks are rosy, and his countenance is happier than I have seen it in many days. While we must educate him in statecraft, it would be sheer madness not to intersperse such lessons with leisure."

I nod in agreement; while it might have been intended as a brief holiday for his Highness, I cannot deny that it has also been an enjoyable excursion for me.

* * *

As is usual, our move to Hampton Court has granted us a grace period from the presence of creatures that might see the residents as prey. Even though we have not encountered any other creatures since the ravener that Cromwell dispatched when we introduced Cecil to his new calling, we still undertake periodic searches of the palace. Even if it were not necessary, I think we have simply got into the habit, and I certainly could not imagine ending my day without a sortie into the passageways.

Returning from another search that has proved to be nothing more than a gentle stroll, Cromwell pours out two glasses of hippocras that James has prepared for him, and we seat ourselves before a small fire in deference to the summer warmth. Cromwell is, to my surprise, looking remarkably pensive, "What is it, Thomas?"

He looks up at me, startled, then sighs, "Forgive me, Richard, I am becoming concerned that the factions surrounding us are growing more and more overt. Despite all efforts to pretend that his Majesty shall live many more years yet, no one is truly fooled by such sentiments. While we have plans of our own, and are working with the Queen to ensure they come to fruition, others at the table are equally determined to lay plans of their own; plans that do not include you or I. Or Hertford, for that matter. My greatest fear is that the Queen shall find herself set aside - for there are some in the Council of such stature that her Gentry birth stands against her; crowned or not."

"Surely the only one who might try would be Norfolk?" I ask, "He is too old now to even consider such a move. Besides, he has earned the King's ire before now and thus is more circumspect."

"No, not the elder Howard," Cromwell shakes his head, "The younger."

"Surrey?" I stare at him, "Is he sufficiently capable of such a move? As far as I can see, his primary talents appear to be poetry, carousing and brawling."

Cromwell snorts with amusement, "I wish it were so, Richie. Truly I do - but those talents you refer to are matched evenly with a towering ambition. Surrey is of royal stock, and wears that ancestry with great pride. In some ways, his royal credentials are greater than that of his Majesty; and he knows it. His father might well be chastened by his activities to promote Anne Boleyn - and all that followed - but Surrey does not have his father's sense or wisdom. The King's infirmity might well prove to be the opportunity that the younger Howard shall grasp to obtain power for himself and his family."

"He would not dare - would he?" The thought horrifies me.

"Oh, I think he would."

As I look at Cromwell, I know that he is right. Howard the younger makes no secret of his disdain for 'new' men such as Cromwell and I; nor does he hide his equal dislike of the Seymours. They, like me, are of Gentry stock, while Cromwell is truly base-born. Talent means nothing to those who see the government of the Kingdom to belong solely to the nobility, regardless of whether or not they are fit to do so. And yet, that same noble blood demands that he form a part of the Regency council. While his father might be willing to set his disdain for us aside, he most certainly could not.

"You intend to keep him under observation, do you not?"

He nods, "I do. While it is my great hope that we can persuade the Howards that they are a vital presence upon a proper Regency Council that shall support her Majesty as she teaches his Highness to rule; I am not convinced that such a partnership shall be possible."

"But we shall try, shall we not?"

"We most certainly shall. There is a wellspring of talent in Henry Howard; if we can harness that, and persuade him to see past his wish to rule, then his Highness shall be well served. He might see me as an upstart determined to steal power for myself; but I have a greater purpose than something so pointless and fleeting. I have seen too many people seduced and ruined by the pursuit of power - and those who wished to take that which they believed I held came within an ace of sending me to my death. I am not one to ignore lessons - no matter where they come from."

I am about to agree, but instead I yawn widely. Today has been a long day - even without a hunt at the end of it.

* * *

Once again, we are all sitting uncomfortably in a cramped chamber, trying as best we can to ignore the putrid stench of the King's diseased legs. Cromwell is reporting progress on the network of roads; ungoverned tracks gradually being replaced by paved routes that can be travelled in safety. Some are complete now - especially the long road to York. His Majesty is clearly pleased by this news, "If that is so, then we shall make use of it to visit our subjects in the North. See to it."

If he is fazed by this sudden order, Cromwell does not show it, "Yes, Majesty." His report complete, he seats himself and makes a quick note on a scrap of paper to remind himself to set matters in motion as soon as he returns to his desk. His Majesty is radiantly unaware of the sheer degree of work that goes into organising a progress - and shall assume all is done before the day is at its end. Assuming, of course, that he has not forgotten he made the order in the first place.

As we move on to other matters, I find myself looking around at the various men seated at the table. Suffolk is, as always, quiet but attentive - ready to speak when required, but otherwise silent. Northumberland is watching, too; though in his case, he is more likely to force his way into discussions whether his words are wise or not. That is a man with ambition almost as great as the Howards, I think. They are here as well - father and son - and they have another relative recently arrived at court, too; a young prattling cousin of the Earl by the name of Catherine, who has joined the Queen's ladies. God above, they look at us with barely concealed disdain; though the elder conceals it rather better than the younger. It could not be more obvious that they would remove those of us who are not noble from the room at the first opportunity if they could. Unfortunately for them, however, they cannot. Fickle though the King's favour can be, when it is held, it is unassailable; and Cromwell holds it - and holds it well.

As the meeting ends, the King is hefted back into his enormous carrying chair, and transported back to his private chambers, while those of us who have sat with him gather our papers in relief at our freedom from that awful reek of his ulcers. Cromwell stops beside me briefly, "We shall need to discuss the King's desire to go on Progress, my Lord. If you can join me in my office, we shall begin making preparations."

I nod, before joining Mr Wriothesley briefly to exchange a few notes. Now that we are Hampton Court, I have no office of my own, so once again I am seated at a desk in the office chambers, overseeing the work of the clerks. I know that Wriothesley resents my presence in the midst of his personal fiefdom - but he cannot complain, so instead he makes the best of it and speaks to me with stiff deference. I ought not to care - but still there is that ever-present sense of discomfort that he inspires in me. I wish I could work out why.

It is as I am making my way from the main offices to join Cromwell that I find myself face to face with Surrey in a quiet corridor. As he outranks me, I immediately offer him a courteous bow, but it seems that he has other plans in mind, and glares at me in a most disquieting fashion.

"My Lord?" I decide to remain innocent, even though I am well aware why he looks at me so, "Have I offended you in some way?"

At first he does not answer, but instead reaches out to grasp a handful of my simarre, and pushes me back against the wall, "Do not think that I am unaware of your plotting, Rich." He hisses, "You and that black raven Cromwell. Do you plan to rule the nation once the Lion is sleeping?"

I shake my head, for my answer is nothing but truth, "Indeed no, my Lord - our concern is only the peace and safety of the Realm. It is not for men such as I to lead England - we are neither born to it nor made for it."

"The rule of this Kingdom is by right of blood, Rich. Mark that - mark it well."

"Then do _you_ intend to rule the nation when the Lion is sleeping?" I ask, my own voice low, my eyes narrowed upon him. He seems surprised at my words - perhaps he thinks me too craven to ask such an incisive question.

He snarls, and draws his poniard, setting its point at my throat, "To speak so is treason, my Lord." He murmurs.

"Yet not when _you_ speak so? Does the presence of the Royal standard in your Arms grant you immunity?"

He glares at me, clearly irked at my failure to be intimidated by his threatening behaviour. But then, he has no idea that I have faced far worse threats than he. My expression set, I reach up and grasp his right wrist with a tighter grip than he expects, and force his hand back down, "I am no threat to this realm, your Grace. I serve the Crown, and shall do so until my dying day. Your plans are your own, and mine are my own. My care is only for the safety and welfare of England - nothing more."

His eyes angry, he steps back, and he glares at me, "I am watching you, Rich. You and Cromwell. When the time comes, _I_ shall be the one to whom the Prince turns for guidance - my blood demands it."

I watch him as he walks away. God, if only I could amend that proposed law to enact the succession - but I cannot. No one would countenance the exclusion of Surrey from the King's Council - despite the danger he poses to the safety of England's future. The world is changing, but Surrey is not. Was the death of Warwick at the hands of Edward York no lesson that a Peer does not stand above a King? It seems not to be so for Surrey.

Straightening my ruffled garments as the Earl stalks away, I make my way through to Cromwell's office. Naturally, he is not pleased to discover that I have been assaulted; but he knows, as I do, that Henry Howard is largely untouchable in such matters.

"That is not good news at all, Richie," He sighs, sitting down again and looking rather tired, "it could not be clearer that he has no intention of working with us to secure the succession. Perhaps his Grace Suffolk might have more success in persuading him that it is better to work together than at cross purposes."

A noble hope, yes; but I cannot help but feel that it is a vain one.


	5. A Season of Planning

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your review, Anne - I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Alas, I fear that Henry Howard shall still come to a sticky end - but as you liked the character in the show, I thought I'd reflect his less impetuous nature, and went burrowing back into the relevant chapters to make some amendments to his last days; plus I've thrown in one of his poems for good measure to help Thomas and Richard reconsider their opinions of him.

That's still a few chapters away, though - so, in the meantime, on we go...

* * *

Chapter Five

 _A Season of Planning_

I have a letter on my desk from Cecil, though it is nothing to fear, for it is merely a report upon the contents of the various coffers that have been delivered to Grant's Place during the many months that I have been unable to visit. God above, he is thorough; I thought that I was methodical, but Cecil is astonishingly capable. All he lacks is the experience that I have gained, so that is what I shall do my best to grant him.

There is nothing of concern - just an accumulation of papers that may be of use in the future - but nonetheless Cecil has considered them all with equal care, but his only concern is that he is running out of space in the index, and he is asking for my permission to begin a new one. As I am in my quarters, rather than the offices, I have no qualms about consulting Wolsey, "I think he has the ability to organise a new index, Eminence. Do you have any suggestions that I can impart to him?"

 _Only that he would be better at it than you._

Charming.

"Or perhaps a _useful_ suggestion, Eminence."

 _He has an excellent mind. I may not be able to communicate with him, but I can observe his activities, much as I can with you; for he is within our Library._

"Did you just say 'our' Library, Eminence?" I cannot resist it.

 _It is his as much as yours, and mine, Richard; regardless of our foolish squabbles, we must look to the future - and he shall take up the fight long after you are no longer here. When that time comes, we shall have some most interesting conversations, I think_.

"I shall write back to him confirming that we are both in agreement with his request. Much as I loathe to admit it, Eminence, he is vastly more organised than I - and a new Index is best left in his hands."

 _Not to mention that he has the time to devote to it; which you do not._ Wolsey's words are rather kinder now; but he knows that I am not offended by his insults. We have worked together, and cheerfully insulted each other, for too long to take offence over such things.

A reply granting my permission is dispatched that same day, and I prepare a few notes for tonight's meeting of the Queen's Council, as I wish to present the draft bill that Cecil and I have written; or, at least as much as I can given that the document is locked up in the Library. Such is the King's fear of his mortality that it is too dangerous to have the actual papers where they can be found. The last thing I want to do is put my head at risk thanks to someone like Howard, or one of his ilk, finding it and denouncing me.

I look up at a knock upon my door, and John opens it to admit Cromwell, whom I invited to join me for supper prior to our meeting. As John has struck up a friendship with one of the cooks in the great Kitchen, he often has the pick of those dishes which are prepared for the higher lords who wish to dine in private - and indeed he has surpassed himself today in securing not only a goodly sized portion from a finely turned haunch of beef that has been drenched in a thick gravy, but also a curd tart to enjoy afterwards with the hippocras.

Cromwell stifles a yawn as he sits down at the table, "Forgive me, Richard. I have been most pressed today; the King is intent upon his progress to York, and wishes - as always - for the arrangements to be in place immediately."

Ah yes: York. As is always the case, his Majesty is blissfully ignorant of the sheer degree of effort required to organise the movement of a large entourage of important folk halfway across England.

"How go the preparations?" I ask, for I have been engaged elsewhere on matters of a legal bent over the last few days, and thus unable to help.

"Slowly." Cromwell admits, "Finding suitable houses to billet a King and his Lords is difficult. I do not lack volunteers, but the work they must do to prepare their properties to meet his exacting standards is usually extensive, and costly. I doubt that we shall be able to move out before September at the earliest. Perhaps we shall celebrate his royal Highness's ninth Birthday while on Progress - assuming I can persuade his Majesty to allow the Prince to accompany him. I think it would be beneficial for both the Prince's education, and for the people to see him with his Father."

"Perhaps - though if he does not, there shall be ample opportunity for his Highness to go on Progress at a later time, even if it is as King rather than as a Prince. What is her Majesty's opinion?"

"She shall almost certainly not be consulted on the matter, I fear. In matters such as this, the King's view is all that counts - and she shall bend to his will, regardless of her own views. Though, I think she would prefer it if Edward could travel with them, both for the reasons I have already stated, and to keep him at her side, for she is granted few opportunities these days. This is the longest time he has spent at Court since his Household was established."

While the beef is excellent, we are both dreadful over curd tarts, and abandon the savoury dish in favour of devouring the sweet one. By the time we depart for our meeting with Her Majesty, we have both rather overeaten, and I am sure that Cromwell regrets his indulgence as much as I do.

Today's meeting is in Suffolk's palatial quarters. He has dismissed his attendants, and as his wife is not present - for they are now estranged, alas - we are secure to discuss all that we may.

"The draft Bill is complete, Majesty." I begin, before offering a brief _précis_ of the document, "I would show it to you, but I dare not risk being caught with it."

"I think you are wise in that respect, my Lord." The Queen agrees, "Lady Rochford has overheard a number of conversations that suggest an eagerness to find some means of removing you from the King's favour. Given the failure of the last attempt, however, those who wish to do so are at something of a loss as to how they shall achieve it."

"Conversations?" Cromwell asks, an eyebrow arched up to his hairline.

Queen Jane cannot suppress a smile, as Lady Rochford, seated to my left, scowls, "Henry Howard's tiresome cousin, my Lord. Never before have I encountered such an empty headed creature as she. Her entire existence seems to revolve around men, dresses and gossip - in that order."

"She is but eighteen, Lady Rochford." The Queen reminds her, still smiling, "And her upbringing was hardly conducive to a life of decorum and sober conduct."

"Maybe so, Majesty, but nonetheless I feel a regular strong desire to hurl her from the nearest window. It is only her unguarded tongue and its usefulness to us that prevents me from doing so."

"With whom is she discussing matters that might be of concern to us?" Hertford asks, intrigued.

"No one of consequence, your Grace." Lady Rochford admits, "It is just foolish prattling to make herself seem important; but she speaks of conversations between her cousin and her uncle as though they are fit for all to hear - when I imagine that they are entirely not."

"And what are they discussing?" Suffolk asks, amused at her rancour.

"Means of removing their Graces the Earl of Essex and Baron Rich from the Council, and the King's favour. Their ongoing failure to find a suitable means of doing so is quite amusing to the young Miss Howard - though I am quite sure that if they knew that she was sharing their travails with her friends she would be roundly beaten for her foolishness."

"Then we must ensure that they do not know." Cromwell advises, "Tiresome though she may be, her inadvertent spying for us is too important to leave unprotected."

Queen Jane nods, then turns to Suffolk, "Have you made progress in identifying further potential councillors for the Regency, my Lord?"

"I would suggest William Paget, Majesty; he is loyal to the Crown and is not aligned with any faction - though whether that be out of loyalty or merely because he wishes to see which faction is victorious when the time comes, I could not say."

"I could." Cromwell says, "I think it to be the former - he is discreet, talented and determined to offer his services loyally and truly."

"If you trust him, your Grace," Suffolk concedes, "Then I consider him trustworthy. I shall approach him."

"Should we consider Secretary Wriothesley?" Hertford asks.

"No." The word comes from me entirely unbidden.

"No?" Hertford looks at me, surprised, "He has given no reason for us to suspect his intentions."

"I…" I struggle to articulate my reasoning - for I had not intended to speak; it is as though something else reached in and plucked the word from my throat. Fortunately, Cromwell comes to my rescue, "We have worked extensively with the Secretary, your Grace. I think we must take great care with Mr Wriothesley, for his loyalty is as much open to whoever he sees as the strongest party as Paget's is not."

"Can you evidence such a claim, my Lord?" Suffolk asks, "I fear that the speed of my Lord Rich's response suggests a personal antipathy."

"I can do that, your Grace." I take over, "You may recall our discussion with the King when I was disguised as one of the Queen's servants - the Bishop of Winchester advised that Secretary Wriothesley had uncovered a document that would save both the Lord Chancellor and myself. What you do not know - for we only found out by chance - is that he had been interrupted in the process of preparing to burn that document. His Grace only spoke of it in order to attempt to extricate himself from the collapsing intrigue. Perhaps it _is_ antipathy upon my part - but I can assure you that it is not without foundation."

Suffolk nods, "Then we shall not approach Mr Wriothesley. I am still in two minds over Northumberland - while I respect his credentials and his capability, I am concerned at his ambition. All at court have ambitions to better themselves, but some are more determined to do so by whatever means possible than others. He has his reasons, of course – his father's execution for treason at the start of his Majesty's reign is a stain that he has worked hard to erase. And successfully, too – for who remembers the fate of Edmund Dudley now? There is no way to know if he could be content with what he has now, or whether he wants more."

"Oh dear, this is most vexing." The Queen sighs, "We must find men that we can trust - and yet there seem to be so few."

"I think we shall need to consider this more pragmatically, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "Not so much who we can trust the most; more who we can distrust the least. There is no suggestion that Northumberland would look to treasonous acts to further his fortunes; though it is hard not to wonder."

"Not the compromise I would have hoped for." She sighs, "But if that is what we must do, then we shall do it."

* * *

Once again, I am seated in Cromwell's office, as we work our way through a huge pile of papers covered in writing in various hands that list available accommodation for the Court as it travels, means of obtaining victuals, the number of horses, mules and oxen required to transport people and goods. God help us all, how much we need to do…

"At this rate, Richie," Cromwell sighs, "we shall be not so much a progress as a ravening horde of locusts. How we shall be able to provision a party of such size without starving out the neighbourhoods through which we pass, I cannot begin to guess."

Much as we would like to reduce the overall size of the enormous entourage, to do so any further than we have already done shall offend not only those who are uninvited, but also his Majesty's sense of pride. He is a King - and thus must have his Court around him. We shall certainly be travelling, as will all the other councillors - for meetings shall continue even while we are on the road. Once, perhaps, when the King was younger and more fit to ride, we could have organised this with less trouble - but the distances he can travel in a single day are far shorter now than they were then, and great houses of a size fit for him are spaced too far apart for an easy route to be determined.

"It would be easier if we could use a carriage." I admit, "But, as it is not possible to find one that shall not rattle his Majesty's bones from their sockets, the pain it would cause him would be unendurable. It is a horse or nothing. Is it possible to find some means of establishing a camp?"

"For the men, perhaps." Cromwell smiles, "But I suspect the Ladies of the Court would object most strongly to being obliged to live under canvas. Certainly we shall have to house some of the lesser courtiers and the servants in tents - but his Majesty shall expect to be hosted by the Nobility in their homes. I must admit that I am hoping he shall change his mind about the whole business and look to other novelties."

"Be careful what you wish for, Thomas." I advise him, smiling, "He might decide it more worthwhile to go to war."

"Please God, no. A peaceful army of velvet-clad courtiers is hard enough to provision as it is. Those who have offered their homes to his Majesty are even now discovering that it shall all but bankrupt them, and they are now trapped by the obligations of their offers. As are we. Despite all, his Majesty still spends far more than he gains - and I am at a loss as to how to even begin to pay for much of this. Are there any monastic lands left to sell?"

He is only half joking. There are very few such establishments remaining - and I am not sure that he is reckless enough to close one of the few that is left: Thetford Priory. That would truly be madness; the place houses the tombs of the Howard family, and he despises us quite enough as it is. The last thing we would need at this time is to provoke him to act against us by obliging him to rehouse the bones of his deceased ancestors.

The matter remains unresolved as we abandon the papers to dine in the Hall. The place is startlingly lively this afternoon, as a consort of musicians is playing, and a few have begun to dance in the open space between the trestles. Chief amongst them is that boy Robert, Northumberland's son. Young though he is, he is elegant, handsome and already attracting the interest of a wide range of young women. From the way that he deals with them, I suspect he is also something of a charmer, for they almost vie with one another for his attention, "I suspect he shall break a few hearts when he makes a marriage," I mutter to Cromwell, a little slyly.

Swallowing a sip of claret, Cromwell nods, and smiles, "I fear so. I have no doubt that whatever marriage he makes, it shall be advantageous. His father is keen not only to profit personally, but also for such fame to filter down to his heirs. All of them seem to have bright futures, I think - for they are all talented in one direction or another. How old is he?"

"Fifteen, I think. Or thereabouts. Why do you ask?"

"It would do no harm for him to be a companion to his Highness - the Prince spends too much time either with women or old men. A companion more his own age would be most beneficial; I think it is something worth raising in the right quarters."

An interesting plan - and certainly not one that I would have thought of. I am about to state my agreement, but instead Cromwell stands, "Come, Mr Rich, we must to work, I fear."

There is a look upon his face - mild pleasure with a slight twinkle in his eye. Whatever he is aiming to do this afternoon, he is clearly looking forward to it; but it is not until we return to his office that I discover the reason, for Gregory is waiting there.

"Father!" he stands, smiling happily as they embrace. Much has changed over the last few years; for Gregory is now married to the Queen's sister Elizabeth, and already has a son and daughter, though Cromwell sees them as rarely as he sees the rest of his family. Normally he is busy at work in the Commons, for he is a Member of Parliament these days - but now that Parliament has risen, he shall spend the coming autumn and winter working in the Palace with us.

"Your Grace," He turns then to me, and we shake hands warmly. While Gregory lacks his Father's brilliance, he is by no means unintelligent, and his eagerness to get to work is heartwarming. Like father, like son, it seems.

And so, for the rest of the day, the three of us pore over documents, make lists, plan, cross out scribbles, add new ones, argue, then agree. By the time we all stop to sup, there is something approximating a plan for the progress. There is still much to be done of course - but at least there is a simple framework upon which to pin everything else. My only hope now is that I don't fall asleep in my supper.

* * *

The sun is shining in through the wide windows of my main chamber as I break my fast. Last night was a strange sequence of dreams, some disturbing, others bizarre. While they made little sense to me, they were remarkably vivid, and images of them still linger even as the waking world begins to impose itself upon my mind. Setting aside that strangeness, I feel a sense of relief; for we have been besieged by heavy rain for nearly a week - keeping his Majesty from his outdoor entertainments, and thus causing his temper to deteriorate quite precipitately. He has not struck anyone yet, but we all know this is merely because he lacks the energy to rise from his chair, and cannot reach those to whom such blows would once have been aimed.

I can hear the sounds of horses' hooves outside; it seems that courtiers are gathering to hunt - and I look out from my window to see that one of the beasts is that enormous draught-horse that came from King Francis. It deserves the name it was granted: Goliath; it is taller than most of the others, and its width is astonishing - a broad back sufficient to carry the weight of its enormous rider.

Most of the grandest courtiers are present, and mount up with varying degrees of ease depending upon their age and skill. It is, I must admit, quite fascinating to watch, for none of the riders are aware of my scrutiny, and they could not be more obvious in their unspoken declarations of allegiance. There is Surrey, on a fine chestnut, close to those who consider him the 'coming' man at Court, while others are gathering quite close to Hertford. Those who are not in one party, or the other, are clearly still in two minds as to which shall receive their friendship. I am, for once, most relieved that I am not generally expected, or welcome, at such gatherings.

Those who are aboard their horses are obliged to dismount again as a group approaches - four men walking along in that staggering gait of those burdened by a heavy weight. Strong though they are, the combined load of chair and occupant must be quite considerable. Even now, alas, the King must be hefted about in that damned carrying chair. For him to look so infirm in front of his courtiers must be all but unendurable - no wonder his temper is so short.

Goliath is brought alongside a great platform, accessed by a long, shallow ramp. Still staggering, the four bearers bring the enormous chair up onto the platform, and then do what they can to assist his Majesty into the saddle without looking too much as though they are assisting him - a nearly impossible task, I fear. It is not perhaps so much his great weight, but his rotting legs, that are the cause of such awkward humiliation; but if he feels shame, King Henry ignores it, and expects all about him to do likewise. Sadly, while his back is turned, they do no such thing - if the expressions of disgust at the reek, or worry at his obvious infirmity, are anything to go by.

My own thoughts are thus occupied by the same concern as I depart for the offices. We need, more than anything else, to settle with his Majesty once and for all what shall happen should he die before Edward comes of age. It is going to happen - it could not be more obvious that it is going to happen - and yet still he refuses to countenance it. In his mind, all is settled. He shall hand his Crown to Edward when he is a man grown. If Edward should falter, then there is the younger Henry. If all fails, there is Elizabeth. But _how_ shall all be done? And what if his determined optimism is proved false - as we are quite convinced it shall be? We _must_ have plans in place - plans agreed by the King and ratified by Parliament if at all possible. If we do not, then it is a simple matter for the most powerful Lords to set it aside and fight amongst themselves to be Lord Protector. But still he will not permit us to prevent it.

I seat myself at my desk and start - yet again - to ponder the growing matter of finances. Even without the proposed Progress to York, there is no escaping the fact that the Royal coffers are empty, and the King's debts are growing by the day. No matter how carefully we attempt to impose at least some measure of restraint and frugality, it seems as though the coins fall through our fingers like sand. His Majesty wishes to present himself as the greatest Prince in Christendom, and doing so is not an inexpensive enterprise. Unfortunately, he no longer has money of his own to spend, and we are running out of lenders whose money he can spend instead.

How on earth could it be possible? The revenues we managed to generate from the sale of monastic properties and lands reached such obscene sums that I never thought there could be so much money held by any man - but all of it is gone. Every last groat. The monies that we _can_ generate, from taxes, rents and grants from Parliament are barely sufficient to cover daily expenses, never mind to pay back that which has been borrowed. I almost wish that I was the Solicitor General again, buried in legal clauses and codicils. At least I would not be required to conjure money from thin air.

As I always do when faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem, I find myself knocking upon Cromwell's door. Why I still knock, I have no idea, for he always reminds me that I do not need to do so - and it is not as though I shall walk in upon him in a compromising position - but nonetheless, I still knock, and he still bids me enter.

"I would remind you that you do not need to knock, Richie, if I knew it would do any good to stop you." He smiles at me, "I, too, am at a loss as to where our next penny shall come from." He does not need to ask why I am here: we are both struggling with the problem.

"Perhaps we should just hurl all the books into the river and pretend that we are richer than Croesus." I mutter, crossly, "God alone knows where it has all gone."

"I suspect we shall be obliged to compose yet another wheedling letter begging Parliament for more funds to support his Majesty's wish to be clad according to his state, bejewelled like a Caliph or surrounded by fine portraiture by Mr Holbein." He is still smiling, "I knew I was mistaken to kill Campofregoso. He could have paid for it all."

That draws a snort of amusement from me; the sheer degree of money that he must have spent on all those gifts when he was worming his way into Henry's favour…I am still marked with scars from his misericorde, and I am grateful that he is gone, but the distance of time from that cruel captivity enables me to regard the rogue Ambassador with amusement these days.

"Such is the way of things." Cromwell says, pushing the papers to one side, "We have an appointment with his Royal Highness, Richie; as his Majesty has decided to hunt this morning, Lord Hertford suggested that you and I - along with most of the Palace Guard - escort the young Prince out into Home Park for the afternoon. The King has agreed, so we are free to sport for a while. Hertford has already arranged for the young Mr Dudley to accompany us - and I am advised that the Prince is most keen to ride with one nearer to him in age. Shall we depart?"

* * *

It is clear as we depart the Palace that the young Robert Dudley is a highly capable horseman, but also a considerate youth. He is not fool enough to start racing his younger companion, nor to suggest the sorts of dangerous behaviour that young men are so wont to attempt when gathered together. Whether it is because Cromwell and I are present, along with another squadron of far more guards than is necessary, I could not say - but Dudley is well aware of the importance of his charge, and I think it likely that he would be equally circumspect if the pair were entirely alone.

For the Prince, it is also a great education, for he has never associated with anyone who is not fully Royal, and Robert is most certainly not. While his father is of the Nobility, he is a younger son and shall not achieve any place in the peerage that he does not earn through his own service, so he is far more aware of life outside the rich confines of a Palace. The two are already fast friends, despite the six or so years that separate them in age, and Cromwell and I are merely present for convention's sake.

As before, Cromwell has brought a suitable light meal for us to share, this time a raised game pie, and we eat together in the shade of a great oak whose leaves are beginning to turn, while Robert regales the Prince with stories of his own, entirely more rambunctious, youth. Fascinated and excited though he is, however, Prince Edward makes no mention at all of Cromwell's youthful adventures. Even now he remembers his mother's exhortation never to discuss the Lord Chancellor's secret occupation. He is, indeed a most intelligent and mature boy - despite being less than ten years old. From what I know of the manner in which Hal talks endlessly, I am sure he could not hope to keep such a secret.

It is soon clear that Robert is absolutely not a fool, for he is intrigued as to why the Prince is being accompanied not by men of his own Household, but by the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal; at least that is my assessment from the regular glances he sends to us. Needless to say, Cromwell is not even slightly concerned by this, and simply engages young Edward in discussions about how the Court operates, the functions of the various office departments, and the means by which they can be of help to the work of a King. How he does so without sounding irredeemably dull, I cannot fathom; he seems able to make even a dry subject such as this interesting and entertaining. He also does so in a manner which could not be more firmly intended to ensure that the Prince feels that he is no threat to the realm, and that he can always be trusted.

"Where, then, does your loyalty lie, my Lord?" Robert asks, rather impudently.

Rather than take offence, Cromwell smiles at the young man, "My loyalty lies entirely with the Crown, Mr Dudley; and, by extension, the man who wears it. Ruling the Kingdom is a task for Kings, not common men such as I. If I can be of service to a King, then I am glad to do so - but that is all that I would wish to do. I will not plot, or ally with any faction; I am far too busy to be bothered with such trifles."

Robert nods, intrigued; I cannot believe that he is blind to his own father's plotting - for Dudley is as ambitious as any other at Court. I was, once, and the council chamber is littered with the shades of those whose ambition caused them to falter and fail. Some to fall back into obscurity, others to opprobrium, others to death. It has always been thus - but times are changing, and Cromwell is at the forefront of those changes.

"What are your plans, then, my Lord?"

"To create a form of Government that is of suitable merit to serve a King honestly, fairly and well, Mr Dudley. Kings should not be troubled by squabbles amongst their councillors - nor should they be obliged to differentiate between flattery and true counsel. Is that not what all men should wish for when they come to Court to serve their King?"

Dudley nods, intrigued. I am not sure that was the answer he was expecting; perhaps he shall report it to his father - but if he does, how can Northumberland possibly attempt to interpret Cromwell's words as being inclined towards any faction? Besides, as the fourth son of a Duke, what is there for him but to aim to succeed on the basis of his wits? There would be no place for him at the Council table if only the great Lords were permitted to sit there - but if talent could make such an outcome possible…yes - it is as though the very movement of the thought through his mind is openly visible upon his face.

"Men believe that I seek only power and enrichment for myself, Mr Dudley." Cromwell says, much more seriously now, "But I do not. That I have both is true - but all was snatched from me in a single moment, and I know that it is fickle, and easily lost. My concern is only the good governance of this Kingdom, and to be of service to my King, and his heirs." His sincerity could not be more obvious, "Many men have attempted to gain power for themselves - and their heads were severed from their necks for their presumption. If you wish to be a great Courtier, then do so through service to the King, not service to yourself."

Both youths are watching him avidly, taking in his every word. It is astonishing to me that they consider him with such awe, for one is a Prince, while the other is the son of a Duke; and they are listening intently to a base-born commoner as though he were a great teacher, or even a mage. There are, of course, not many men who have fallen so close to the scaffold, but risen again to such prominence, as Cromwell has. Even that calamity served as a lesson to a man who has learned almost all that he knows from a long, eventful life. Somehow, without knowing how, I know that Dudley shall not speak of this to his father; though I cannot believe that Northumberland shall not demand chapter and verse from him when he returns to his father's apartments.

The conversation between the two boys is most subdued as we return, the pair clearly taking in that which Cromwell told them. From his expression, and the way he keeps looking back at us, I think it likely that Dudley has gained a towering respect for the Lord Chancellor, and perhaps we have another possible ally to aid us in protecting the Prince from those who might seek to rule through him.

And throughout the entire afternoon, I have not said a single word.

* * *

As Cromwell is meeting with the King, I have no companion with whom to sup, so instead I attend the larger meal in the Hall. Once, I would have almost certainly been joined by Wyatt - but he is still abroad, so I settle down at a less occupied trestle that is reserved for those of higher state, and reach for a pewter plate to fill with victuals from the remove that has just been delivered.

To my surprise, I am joined, not by another councillor, but by Lady Rochford, who is scowling in a most unbecoming manner, "Might I join you, my Lord?"

"Only if you stop making such hideous faces, my Lady. I have no wish to lose my appetite."

She consents to smile, and then sits down, "Forgive me, my Lord; how the Queen puts up with the tiresome little creature, I cannot begin to imagine."

"Miss Howard?" As though I need to ask.

"Ever since his Majesty decreed that we are to progress to York, it has been 'dresses for riding' this, and 'dresses for dancing' that. Despite her lineage, she seems not to have even thought that only the senior ladies shall travel north with the Queen. She is even - God forbid - discussing the men that she might allow into her bed while travelling; as there shall be less scrutiny over who sleeps with whom."

"She is truly so brazen?" my voice drops to a whisper, startled at such a forthright statement.

"Utterly." Lady Rochford reaches for a small portion of bread, but does little more than shred it, "I am given to understand that her upbringing was undertaken in so lax a fashion that she knows nothing but clothes, corantos and carnality."

"And alliteration?" I tease.

Again, a small smile, "I am concerned, my Lord; for she cares nothing for her virtue - and welcomes men into her bed with alarming frequency. My fear is that her laxity shall bring scandal upon her Majesty; for she requires us all to be chaste. Or, failing that, at least to be discreet. Miss Howard seems not to know the meaning of _either_ word."

"Then why does the Queen not dismiss her?" I am grateful that there is no one sitting close to us, for I would not wish for anyone to overhear us now.

"She is a Howard, my Lord." Lady Rochford reminds me, "Even a minor scion of that great House can hold some degree of power - even if it is wielded by others. The Queen does not wish to risk offending Norfolk, not when he has the ear of the King, is the most senior noble at court, and expects - with fair reason - to be at the forefront of the Council when the Prince succeeds his throne. He could, of course, make things very difficult for her Majesty."

And that, of course, is the rub. Lady Rochford is deeply loyal to the Queen - to the point that Cromwell entrusted her as a last line of defence against any demon that might assault her Majesty. Any incident that might harm the woman that gave her trust, kindness and a renewed place at Court fills her with alarm. As she cannot speak to Cromwell, she instead has come to me, for she trusts us equally.

Given that, regardless of a Crown upon her head, Norfolk is at the head of one of the most Noble families in England, and could easily set her aside. He is a man, she is a woman. He is a Noble, she is a Gentlewoman. Despite a Coronation - once the King is dead, he can use his rank and his sex to force her aside and exchange a Regent for a Lord Protector. There is not a man in England who would consider a woman at the head of government to be better than a man. I might have been taught the worth of a woman is far more than merely the ability to bear a child; but, other than Cromwell, I cannot think of anyone else who would agree with me.

Lady Rochford leans forward, as though intent upon a seed that is entrapped in the fibres of the bread, "That said, my Lord, her prattlings have elicited one useful piece of information."

"Oh?" I lean forward, my arm outstretched as though reaching for a piece of fruit, but unsure what to choose.

"The Howards are plotting against you both; which we already knew to some degree - but still they are lacking a firm plan, for they are unsure who to trust. As we are. I suspect that, suitably primed, she shall alert us should that change. If so, I shall inform you at the first opportunity."

I settle upon an apple, and sit back again, "Of that I have absolute faith, Madame; thank you."

* * *

Hertford and Cromwell are deep in conversation when I arrive in his office to deliver some papers rather than sending a clerk. Given that the papers cover yet more problems with debts, they shall need to be discussed, so why waste time sending a boy, then following?

"Have I missed something, my Lords?" I ask, genially, setting the papers down.

"Nothing of great note, my Lord." Hertford sighs, "Merely another tantrum from my younger brother."

There is only one other Seymour brother with ambitions to progress at Court, so I do not need to ask which one, "Ah. Over what?"

"The usual." Hertford sighs, "He wishes for preferments to match mine."

That is no surprise. I am fortunate in that no brother of mine chose a Court career, and thus I have no family rival; but it is the fate of younger brothers to be outstripped by their older siblings in the English nobility - and, regardless of his self-belief, Thomas Seymour has but a fraction of the political talent of his elder brother. Recklessness and ambition he has aplenty, but that is all.

"It appears that he is attempting to make overtures to his Royal Highness." Cromwell observes, blandly.

"Is that an issue of concern to us?" I ask, "Has he succeeded?"

"Not yet; for his Tutors will not permit any dealings with anyone who is not approved by their Majesties. At present, that party consists of his Tutors, his doctors, your good selves - owing to your importance as Court officials - myself, Mr Dudley and his specific household. As the King's officials shall remain in post until he leaves us, it is a straightforward matter to keep those who seek only personal gain from the association away from him. But, when he comes into his inheritance, all must be re-appointed, so he aims to find some means of achieving preferment through flattering the Prince now."

"Do you think he could prove harmful to any plans to secure the Prince's sovereignty?"

Hertford sighs, and sits down, "Yes, my Lord Rich; I do. He is ambitious, jealous of my position and eager to at least equal it, if not better it. I cannot blame him for being restless; for, as a younger son, what can he do other than forge some form of career for himself? All rights and inheritances passed to me upon the death of our father. But…"

"You do not trust him to act in the best interests of anyone other than himself." I finish.

He nods.

"Do you think he would ally himself with one of the factions?" Cromwell asks, "Presumably with the Howards, assuming they would accept him. He is, after all, a Seymour."

Again, Hertford nods.

"Then we shall add that possibility to our plans." He sits back and groans, a little theatrically, "All I seem to do these days is plan. I can barely remember a time when I could freely cut the heads from raveners. Life was so much simpler then."

Hertford stares at him, shocked.

"That was a joke, my Lord."


	6. Strange Visions

Chapter Six

 _Strange Visions_

We have not seen the King for several days, held captive in his chambers by another blockage of the ulcers in his legs. Few are granted entry to his presence, and those who are return with relief, for his temper is insupportable, while the stench of putrefaction is worse. Cromwell is one of the few who have been granted such a dubious privilege, and his expression as I join him in his office is rather nauseated, "I am fortunate," he admits, "I understand that Mr Paget vomited upon exiting the chamber."

"How much longer can this continue, Thomas?" I cannot hide my worry, though I manage to keep my voice very low - there is no certainty that we are not overheard, "Surely his Majesty cannot still believe that he shall live long enough to see his son become a man?"

Cromwell does not answer, but his sigh is deep, "I live in hope." He says, "For that would be the best for us all."

His expression, however, suggests otherwise, "Come, Richard; it is late. We shall sup in my quarters tonight and then investigate the corridors."

"I shall clear my desk and join you anon."

As I seat myself before the papers that I need to complete before I can end work for the day, I feel a strange, horrible sensation of being watched; a sense of deep hostility and loathing - almost a desire to destroy me as bloodily and brutally as possible. For a moment I am quite frozen in horror - for it has assailed me from no source that I can determine. It is as though something is trying to warn me…

Shaking slightly, I look up, wondering who is watching me - only to find that there is only one other person in the room: Wriothesley; but he is intent upon his papers, and is most certainly not looking at me. Confused, I pause - only to find that that dread has faded away, and I feel rather foolish. Wriothesley might be rather intimidating, but he has never been a threat to us - as he seems unable to act unless part of a conspiracy, and none have accepted him into their factions since his association with the banished Gardiner. No, it is not him - but if not, then who? Or, worse, what?

No. Cromwell has not sensed ichor - so there is no demon nearby. I must have drifted into reverie for a moment - my experiences have driven many a dream that has filled me with horror, so perhaps that is all that it is. Gathering myself together again, I organise the papers into a suitable order, finish the few remaining notes that I need to make, then clear them away in a coffer.

After we have supped, we slip away from Cromwell's palatial quarters to begin our hunt - despite the lack of anticipated quarry. Neither of us are armed with our swords; though we are not fool enough to be entirely unarmed. While Cromwell probably has at least two knives about his person, I carry both my cherished poniard and its fellow. I suppose we are not so much intent upon demons now as we are upon conspirators - for such darkened corridors are ideal meeting places for those with ill intentions. So far, we have found no more conspirators than we have demons, which pleases us both; but there is no escaping the reality of manoeuvring amongst those who seek to benefit from the change that is coming; and so we keep a close eye when we are out at night.

I am sure that Cromwell is as worried as I am over the risks that face us in the King's continued refusal to accept the inevitability of a Regency. In the absence of a settled Act of Parliament, we shall be absolutely powerless to stop a ghastly power struggle that shall certainly send us to the block, and the King helpless against those who would use him to rule for themselves. I am, perhaps, less afraid of death than I might once have been - but nonetheless, the fear of being snatched from the world at a time when we are most needed remains ever present. Maybe I place too much of a burden upon myself, and England does not need us as much as I believe she does…

But if I am not essential, then the same could not be said for Cromwell. God, no. Who on earth could possibly replace him? Is there any Silver Sword as talented as he? Certainly not amongst the Itinerants currently in England. They are most capable, yes - but none of them are prepared to serve Princes, nor would they wish to. Not that I can blame them - a place as poisonous as this is not a situation where all men can thrive. Demons are far easier to tackle than politicians and Lords.

Perhaps it is just as well that we see nothing; my mind is not upon the hunt in the slightest. How it is that we have not faced a demonic incursion given the delicate state of the Kingdom, I cannot begin to guess - surely those of the highest degree must have settled matters between them? Thank God they have not. Matters are delicate enough as it is without throwing _that_ into the mixture.

As we always do, we end the evening with a cup of hippocras in front of the fire, though I am rather drowsy.

"Have you heard from Mr Cecil recently?" Cromwell asks, noticing that I am in danger of dropping the cup as I nod somewhat.

"He writes regular reports, Thomas - and he is progressing well upon the extension to the Great Index. I am more convinced than ever that he is something of a gift to us - ridiculous though that might sound." I frown then, for he seems preoccupied, "What is it?"

"I have received a letter from the High." He says, quietly, "He is hoping that I shall retire as soon as is safe for the Kingdom, for they wish to invite me to return there as a Master."

"What - leave?" Now I am no longer drowsy, "Surely not at a time such as this?"

"God, no. Not at the present time - but it is a most tempting offer; I am not as young as I was, and what better way to end my mission than by imparting all that I have learned to those who shall follow me?"

"But who could replace you?" the thought of his departing England is horrifying - and not merely because it shall rob me of his immediate friendship. He is a Silver Sword of such talent - I cannot imagine who could match him in skill.

He smiles at me, "My talent is not _that_ unique, Richie. The High has a number of possible candidates in mind. While it is too late to introduce them to Henry's Court, it may well be wise to do so in preparation for Edward's. And who better to support them than you?"

I cannot find words to answer him - no, I could not be a Second to any other. I could not…

"Have you replied?" I cannot keep the brittleness out of my voice.

"Not yet." He is looking at me, and I know that he can tell what I am thinking, "Though I must. We need to prepare for my departure - and even if I am not here, you shall be - and thus can introduce him to his task."

Almost unbidden, I am shaking my head, "I could not do that, Thomas."

"Of course you could - you have learned all that any Silver Sword would need to know, and you would be as great a help to a new man as Wolsey was to me."

"No."

"Why not?" His gaze is piercing.

"Because I do not want to!" I shout back at him, "I am _your_ Second, Thomas! _Yours_!"

"That is not the role of a Second, Richie - you know it is not. Seconds serve the Order, not individuals."

"I do not care! I cannot serve another Silver Sword - I could not do it!" Oh God - now my eyes are full of tears; but I could not even start to imagine working with anyone other than Cromwell. He is the first, and only, true friend that I have; I trust him with my life - and I could not be abandoned…I could not…

"Cannot, or will not?" he asks, gently.

"Either." I admit, painfully.

"Was that so hard to say?" Cromwell's smile is kind, "I have never known a friend as great as you, and you have proved to be a magnificent Second. There are few Silver Swords in the Courts of Europe who have so capable a Second as I have in you; but I am ageing, Richie - I do not move as quickly as I once did, and there are times when I am so stiffened in my back that I can barely move. It is only thanks to the ministrations of a brew from a most capable apothecary that I am able to endure the discomfort and move freely. We must prepare for the appointment and arrival of a new Silver Sword - and I have been a fool to leave things as long as I have."

"I did not know that you were in pain." I look at him, a little accusingly.

Now he looks embarrassed, "I did not wish to believe it - I felt that, if I ignored it, or tried to treat it, I should not need to consider it - but I am wrong, I think."

"Then I shall fight alongside you, Thomas." I advise him, firmly, "Change is not a good plan at this point…"

"But we must consider it, Richie." He sighs, "I should rather do so before necessity compels me."

* * *

I retire to bed in a most bemused frame of mind. Despite the precarious nature of the times in which we are living, that was the one cornerstone of my existence: the assurance that Cromwell and I should stand together against all that came against England. Now it seems that that is to be taken from me. All is to change, it seems. More than I would wish it.

Can I do it? Can I remain here when my Silver Sword departs from England? And grant my service to another? To no longer be Second to the Raven…

 _Oh, stop your whining, Rich._ Wolsey snaps at me, _It is the way of things - men age, men move on, men die. The mission is greater than your bruised heart - and England still needs a Second of your stature, whether I wish to call you that or not. Accept it._

I lie back against the pillows, sadly. He is right; I know he is right - even if Cromwell is no longer here, there shall still be a Silver Sword in England, and he shall require my service. I am a Second; that is my task, and I shall be damned if I shall not do so to the best of my ability.

My mind made up, I nod, as though in agreement with myself.

And then I burst into tears.

* * *

The night that follows is a strange one - periods of wakefulness entwined with sleep that is again troubled with strange, vivid dreams. I see things that make no sense to me; great, savage battles between creatures of such vileness that I wish only to flee, but I am held where I stand and must watch - hoping that they are so intent upon each other that they do not notice me. If it is a dream, then that should not be so - but somehow I feel that it is not, that I am truly present and thus shall be chased down and slaughtered should the creatures see me. Did Wolsey not tell me that creatures of great magnitude in the demonic realms were warring with one another for the chance to take England as their own? It seems that they are still doing so - and do battle in a world that is so close to ours that I can see through a veil into that world from this one.

By morning, I am as tired as I was before I went to bed last night; hardly the best frame of mind to concentrate on matters pertaining to the future safety of the realm. The dreams I had still bother me; for they seem almost to be more something that I am seeing, rather than something that my mind is creating. Added to that still-present sense of sadness over the knowledge that my solid partnership with Cromwell is also threatened, and my temper is most certainly not at its best as I seat myself at my desk.

No sooner am I seated than it happens again - a dreadful sense that I am being watched, and the watcher views me with ghastly hatred and imagines horrible torments to inflict upon me. Immediately, I look about - but this time, I am alone. What the hell is happening? My moment of unnerved searching stops that sensation again, and I no longer feel that threat - but I am shaken by it, and I sit back in my chair with a shudder. It is as though something is nearby, but in that world that appeared my dreams last night - so, if that is so, then it cannot reach me and there is no immediate reason to be fearful. Instead, I reach for a set of papers that discuss the most recent plans for the King's progress north.

God, what is the point of going there? His Majesty cannot stay in the saddle for an entire day anymore - indeed, it is hard for him to remain aboard a horse now for more than a brace of hours. He shall never consent to ride in a litter, and as for a carriage; to be humiliated _and_ rattled to hell? It is utter madness - but we have no choice, for those who have offered a roof over our heads on the journey have already begun to lay out significant sums of money to do so. Could we truly advise them that their efforts shall be in vain? In some ways, I almost wish we had not succeeded in our quest to build a system of roads.

Wriothesley returns from some meeting or other, and once more I feel that strange shudder down my back. He is no threat to me - and yet still I am intimidated by him. Why? Yes - he wishes to claim my position of favour; yes - he has already tried. But his efforts have achieved nothing but to cause people to distrust him, and thus he remains where he is. That said, I should know better than to dismiss him, so I nod in greeting as he sits at his desk, "Any news from the King?"

"None, my Lord." He advises, in that strange, dull voice of his, "He is no longer abed, but still he is in pain. Though he is still set upon going on Progress. I fear that his determination is merely in the face of his recent illness, and so he is becoming most keen to depart."

I feared as much. His Majesty's need to prove to all that he is still strong enough to rule overrides good sense and practicality - but there is no way that we could risk attempting to dissuade him. Not if we wish to avoid being branded traitors - his temper is such that the merest imagined slight would be sufficient to do so.

In that case, thank God there is no council meeting today - for I am in no fit state to attend one.

* * *

September is at an end, and still we have not departed from Hampton Court. God alone knows if we ever shall, for always there is another problem, another reason to keep us where we are. Houses are not ready to accommodate the King, or the availability of victuals to feed such a horde as shall travel is too limited even to feed the travellers, never mind enough to feed them _and_ the people who live there.

Naturally, his Majesty has no understanding of the difficulties we face in meeting his demands - as has always been the case - but we are not aided by quiet whisperings from the Howards that we are delaying deliberately in order to inconvenience him. As they, too, are not involved in the organisation of the enterprise, they are free from any blame that might be apportioned to us.

Again, I am with Cromwell in his office, as we work through the last few details; wagon trains to supply the court with victuals where the local populace cannot, agreement from those who shall host us that they are ready for us. So nearly ready - but not quite there…

"Have you heard from Warwick?" He asks me, for I have been organising that part of the journey.

"A letter arrived this morning by fast horse, Thomas," I assure him, "The Castle there is in no fit state to receive his Majesty, but Kenilworth is in good repair, and is made ready for us. While there is more land and accommodation at Warwick, it has not seen appropriate care and maintenance in many years - despite being held by the Crown. Thus Kenilworth is the better choice."

"Good." Cromwell approves, "I think, then, that the only issue left for us to address is the state of Nottingham Castle. Despite the work that his Majesty put into it a few years ago, it remains in a poor condition. The construction of a sequence of suitable pavilions is still not complete, and I am not comfortable departing north until I am assured that it shall be ready for his Majesty's arrival."

"He shall not like this, I think." I mutter.

"Indeed he shall not; but he shall like poor conditions at Nottingham Castle even less. Either way, I have no doubt that I shall be sporting some fine bruises before today is at its end."

I wish that he was jesting - but we both know that he is not. Even with such restricted movement, his Majesty is still quite capable of lashing out at his Lord Chancellor with his fists as much as with his tongue. It entertains the rest of the Councillors, though Cromwell has never allowed himself to be discomfited by such abuse as he sees no point. To whom can he complain, after all?

Our papers gathered together, and the vast majority of the journey now secured, we can at least advise the King that it shall be possible to depart by mid October. If his Majesty has decided that the Prince Edward shall also travel, then we shall celebrate his birthday while on the move; though it is likely that the child is still too protected to be permitted to do so.

We are the first to arrive in the Council chamber, but the other councillors are not long in joining us, and a low hum of conversation fills the air while we await the arrival of the King. As the people around us converse, I can see clear divisions have formed: Henry Howard sits proudly as those who are keen to gain his favour sit around him. His father is nearby, watching us with unnervingly narrowed eyes. Similarly, Dudley is holding court to a small number of men who have no desire to be ruled by the Howards. God, could they be any less obvious? Even I can see how ridiculous they are; and they know nothing of the Queen's council, or the plan that shall force them to work together instead against each other.

At last, the King's arrival is announced by the rhythmic thuds of his bearers' footsteps as his great chair is carried into the Council Chamber. As we have learned to expect, the ghastly reek of his poisonous legs precedes him, and all present seem to spring apart, as though they were young lovers caught together by the girl's father. Slapping the men aside, the King hefts himself out of the chair, and limps awkwardly to the head of the table as we all stand and bow.

"We are still at Hampton Court, my Lords." He says, before we even have an opportunity to seat ourselves, "Why are we not travelling north?"

All eyes are immediately upon Cromwell, who ignores the expectant stares, "The last sites are almost made ready, Majesty; it is my intention that we depart in two weeks' time."

"By which time, the whether shall have broken, and we shall be riding in the rain, my Lord." King Henry spits, crossly, "We should be holding Court north of Coventry by now, my Lord, should we not, _my Lord_?" the volume of his voice is rising as much as its pitch.

I do not need to look up to know that the two Howards are smirking at one another, while Northumberland is looking smug. Despite my increased courage, I am still not brave enough to speak while the King is in such an angry state; I have no wish to be insulted or struck.

Cromwell also says nothing, but instead bows deeply. He knows that words shall merely inflame the King at this point; and thus manages to avoid a slap. Instead, the King contents himself to hurl a few insults, and turns to other matters. As these are progressing well, there are no more tantrums, but still we are all struggling to contain ourselves at the foul stench of his ulcerated legs, and long for the meeting to end.

The elder Howard, however, has one more question, "Are there plans to celebrate his Royal Highness' birthday, Majesty? I should be delighted to take that in hand."

We all hold our breath - for none know what response this shall provoke. We do not yet know whether the Prince shall be travelling north with his family, or remaining behind - for the King has not decided. It is a risk on Norfolk's part - for he could find himself the target of the King's rage if he takes offence at being forcibly manoeuvred into a decision over his son's welfare. As he is, of course, hoping that it shall instead be turned upon Cromwell for that same reason, much of that anticipation is that he shall be successful: all enjoy watching the King hurling abuse at the Lord Chancellor.

Remarkably, however, the King does not explode into rage - but instead nods, "That is indeed something that I should like to be considered, my Lord. As we shall be journeying north, however, I should prefer to place it in the hands of the Lord Chancellor, as you shall, I believe, know at which house such a celebration should be undertaken?" he turns to Cromwell as he speaks.

Cromwell bows, "I shall, Majesty."

I cannot help myself - I look across at Norfolk, who is surprisingly good at hiding his scowl. Surrey, on the other hand, is not. Without any effort at all, Cromwell has again assured all that he holds the King's favour in spite of everything that might suggest otherwise. It seems that, regardless of the delays in the organisation of the Progress, Henry still knows that Cromwell is his most faithful servant. And he would be absolutely right.

* * *

I know that Surrey is following me as I make my way back to the offices. Oddly, however he seems not to want to accost me this time - but as I clearly demonstrated that he could not intimidate me, it seems that he prefers not to try again.

It would be so much easier for us all if he could be persuaded to join with us as part of the Regency Council, but his determination to remove us and take charge of the Prince is too strong. All he wants is to be Lord Protector - or, if his father demands that privilege, to be the son of the Lord Protector. The degree of political power they could wield while the Prince is still too young to prevent them could even cause a usurpation - and then what would happen? God, not another civil war - that is the worst possible outcome. But is he truly _that_ ambitious?

As I walk on, and he diverts away, I know that, yes; he is.

Sighing, I shake my head - and then I am all but felled by a sensation of almost unreasoning terror, stumbling sideways against the wall of the passageway and fighting with myself not to scream. It is nearly here…nearly here and it wants to destroy me…for I know all things…I have Shadowsight…

For a moment I am helpless, surrounded by horrors that I cannot begin to name. Whatever stalks me is closer, ever closer…

And then I hit the floor with a rather solid thud, and it stops. I am alone in a sunlit passageway, and looking around in absolute horror. What happened? What was that word? _Shadowsight_? God help me; please God. I have not felt such desperate fear since I was felled by anxiety after Will Paxton mistakenly accosted me and I thought that he was Zaebos.

Gradually, my breathing slows back down again, and I get back to my feet - though I am still very shaken. I have never heard of the word shadowsight, and wonder what it is - though the thought of it fills me with a strong sense of chilled horror, and I put it immediately from my mind. It must be an object, or something - perhaps a jewel, like Red or Blue Fire. God, not jewels again.

No; I shall not think of it; not now. I have far too much else to be doing. Unless Cromwell senses ichor, there are no demons present, so we are not at risk. I have no abilities, nothing in my possession that could be considered dangerous. Whatever these…thoughts…are, that is _all_ that they are. We have more important things to consider.

"Are you well?" Cromwell asks, as I enter his office, "You look pale."

"I…" Why am I not surprised? He almost knows me better than I know myself, "I was disturbed by a strange vision while I was returning to the offices, Thomas. It was startling, but nothing dangerous."

"That was my thought when I was first assaulted by that force that drove me almost to my death, Richie. If it is strange, then it is not 'nothing'."

He eyes me worriedly, until finally I raise my hands, "Very well, I shall investigate the Library as soon as I am able."

"Good." He smiles, then looks up at a knock upon his door. The Steward who enters at his request looks rather apologetic as he hands Cromwell a small note. Cromwell reads it, and sags, "Ah."

"What?" I ask, worriedly, "Is his Majesty unwell?"

"No. He has merely changed his mind about going North. We shall be remaining at Hampton Court for the Prince's Birthday, and then shall move on to Placentia in time for Christmastide."

Now I sag. All that effort - all that work. All those highly placed people who have spent so much money to ensure their homes are fit for a Royal visit…and now we shall have to write to them to tell them that their expenditure was wasted. And they shall blame us, of course; for no one would dare to blame his Majesty.

"Do we know why he has done so?" My fervent hope is that it is not a response to some whispering campaign or other - the last thing that we need is for the King to turn from us. Now of all times.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No. But that does not surprise me in the slightest, Richie. At least he has done so _before_ we departed, rather than halfway. It is likely that he has realised what a great upheaval it shall be for him, and has decided not to travel after all. Long days in the saddle are a trial even when one is fit to endure them - but when one is not…"

"A lot of people shall be disappointed."

"And also relieved. While they shall have laid out great sums to bring their houses to a standard his Majesty would expect, the work shall also have benefited them in terms of repairs or maintenance that was likely needed anyway. They are also spared the monstrous expense of hosting the Court. That would have been a far greater cost to bear. While they shall be disappointed, they shall also be relieved, I suspect." He re-reads the note, "And, it is safe to say that organising a celebration for his Royal Highness shall be a far easier task to achieve. His Majesty is demanding that no expense be spared." He frowns slightly.

"What?"

"Perhaps he has realised that time is growing short. He has not demanded such a degree of celebration since the Prince reached his first year." Cromwell looks up at me, "It might be worth retrieving a certain draft document from the Library."

"I shall write to Cecil at once."

"Do not entrust the letter to any of the Palace staff, Richie. Use one of the Spies."

So he is not _that_ convinced that we are safe, "I shall see to it."

"Good." Cromwell approves, "Now - time to begin letters to a large number of soon-to-be disappointed Gentlemen."

* * *

The man who visits my apartments is dressed in garments that proclaim him to be one of the Palace gardeners. While I have no reason to deal with such people, no one remarks upon his presence at my door - for I have frequently dispatched flowers from the Gardens home to my wife. She was once part of Queen Katherine's circle, but departed after the Great Matter, and has since remained at one or other of our estates. As I shall need to remain at Court this Christmastide, I intend to send a fine selection of late autumnal roses to her, along with a long letter. Since I became a Second, and I have abandoned the man I once was, our relations have improved beyond the mere exercise of conjugal duties, and we have rediscovered the affection that we once shared when we first wed. Thus I alternate between my family, and the Court, at Christmastide; a chore I once avoided has now restored itself to become a pleasure that I miss when I am required to remain here.

While, technically, he is here to present me with a basket of fine blooms that he has selected from the royal gardens, beneath them - well wrapped - is a much more prickly object than thorn-girded stems. His name is Baxter, and he is one of the Spies of the House.

"Are there any messages from Mr Cecil?" I ask, as he sets the basket upon a table in my main chamber.

"None, my Lord, other than to advise that his project continues apace." Baxter advises, accepts a small gratuity for form's sake, and departs with a brief respectful tip to his cap. At my nod, John departs to fetch Cromwell, who has not yet seen the draft Bill.

Since that strange episode in the passageway a few days ago, I have not been affected again, nor has my sleep been disturbed by dreams. Thinking back, I recall that I had tried a rather strong batch of mead courtesy of one of my friends from Essex. Perhaps that was what caused me to feel so odd. Certainly nothing else has happened - which is just as well, as I am far too busy for distractions.

Cromwell takes some time to arrive, and is apologetic, "Forgive me, Richie, I was with his Majesty. My thought was correct - he is coming around to the truth, and is at last keen to consider how his son's future is protected on a more practical level."

Sad though this news is, it is nonetheless a relief to know that we can at last consider the legal force behind the King's will, "Has he asked for a Bill to be prepared?"

"He has. I did not tell him that we had already drafted one. His Majesty believes me to be capable of conjuring such documents from the very air, so to provide it to him at great speed shall not surprise him."

"When shall we take it to him?"

"After I have read it, I think. You should also re-read it. It has been some time since it was written, and you may wish to reconsider what was written at that time. In matters of such importance as this, it is always a wise strategy."

"I shall ask John to arrange some supper for us, and we can consider it over a meal."

"I would not argue with that." Cromwell smiles.

And so we share a venison pie, frumenty and a sallet, while - between mouthfuls - I read out the clauses that Cecil and I drafted together, and Cromwell either nods, or scribbles notes on some rough paper alongside his platter. Once we have eaten, we seat ourselves beside the fire and continue to discuss clauses and thoughts. God, I had forgotten how much I enjoyed doing this - if Wyatt were here, it would be just like old times again.

By the time Cromwell departs, the draft carefully concealed in the folds of his voluminous simarre, we have settled upon the final version, and tomorrow, we shall take the greatest risk, and present it to the King.

* * *

My palms are rather damp, and I am breathing a little more quickly than perhaps I should - but if the King's mood is not the same as it was yesterday, then Cromwell and I are about to make the last mistake we shall ever make in this place. A mere day ago, his Majesty was prepared to consider the details of a Regency - but what if he is no longer so keen? If his former fears have reasserted themselves, then we shall doom ourselves with the paper in Cromwell's hands. God, even he is pale. I am glad I am not alone in being fearful.

"Come, Richie. We shall face this together."

"Always." I agree, stoutly. We have faced an abomination that would have destroyed all things - this is nothing in comparison.

Cromwell swallows nervously. So do I.

There is only one man in the chamber other than the King, and that is Culpepper, his favourite Groom. A close-mouthed man, not known for gossip, Thomas Culpepper seems to me to be the very personification of that saying that still waters run deep. I know that there are rumours about his conduct when not about the King, but when he is, his discretion and service are beyond reproach.

"Do you have it, Mr Cromwell?" Henry asks, tiredly. It seems that his mood has not changed, then. Either that, or we are being led into a dreadful trap.

"I do, Majesty." Carefully, Cromwell sets the papers that shall either solve our dilemma, or condemn us to die, into the King's outstretched hand. Without another word, Henry reaches for his eyeglasses and reads the papers carefully. While he avoided the dull work of governance when he was young, and left it all to Wolsey, he never did so again - and it is only in recent years that his wish to be involved with it has faltered once more. But this document is his last legacy for his son, and it is clear that he intends to ensure its passage.

At length, he sets the papers down, "You have been very thorough, my Lord."

Cromwell bows, but does not comment. He knows better than to do so.

"I see that you have taken great care to emphasise that you shall not be at the forefront of government."

"It is not my place, Majesty. Regardless of the honours that you have so generously granted me, I am base-born. Leadership of the Queen's Recency Council should be in the hands of one who is both unimpeachably loyal to you, and of suitable birth." He chooses to ignore the rather awkward fact that Suffolk was not born a Duke any more than he was born an Earl, "Above all, the rule of the Kingdom until his Highness comes of age should rest in the hands of his royal Mother, and there should be no Lord Protector."

"I should have thought you would have put yourself in such a position." Henry says, rather spitefully.

"Were I to do so, then the nation would erupt against me. I am not blinded by the pursuit of power, Majesty - my only wish is to ensure stable government to support his Highness as he grows to manhood and assumes his proper place at the head of his Realm."

Slowly, Henry turns to look up at Cromwell, and suddenly his haughty spite is gone. For a brief moment, we are looking not upon a King, but instead upon an old man who knows death is stalking him, and fears that he shall leave too much undone when he is called home. To my surprise, Cromwell goes down on both knees, which prompts me to do likewise, "Majesty. You have my word, I shall dedicate all that I am, my very life, to protecting your legacy. I swear it to you upon the service that I have given to you, the love that I bear you as my King, and upon my very mortal soul. Edward shall rule, and rule well. This shall protect his rights, and both I, and the Lord Privy Seal, shall serve him as diligently and faithfully as I hope that I have served you."

The King looks upon us both, on our knees, and sighs, "Aye. The two of you have shown me loyalty greater than any other. A man would be blind not to see the love you bear for me, and for each other. The years have taught me to trust no man, Tom Cromwell - but still you have served me faithfully, and truly. Perhaps there is no other man I can trust as much as you; but I believe you when you promise me that you shall not thieve power from my boy. Others might not - but I do. Protect my Kingdom, my old Raven. Protect it well."

My God - what did he just say? He called Cromwell 'Raven' - does he know?

If Cromwell is as startled as I, he does not show it. Instead he bows, then leans forward to kiss the King's extended hand, "I shall do so, Majesty. To my last breath."

The King extends his hand to me, and I do likewise, "As shall I, Majesty. I may not be as deserving of faith as my Lord Cromwell, but nonetheless, I shall give all that I am to ensure the Prince comes into his Kingdom."

Slowly, Henry sinks back into his chair, and that vulnerability is gone, "I want that Bill enacted by Parliament as soon as you may, my Lord. See to it."

Cromwell rises to his feet, as do I, and we bow together, "I shall do so, Majesty. Even if I must recall Parliament to do it."

"Which you shall, shall you not?" Henry advises, dryly, "I know that the commons are not sitting at present."

"They shall come, and it shall be done."

Henry waves us out, and we withdraw. Somehow, as I depart the room, the shadows cast by the candles seem to swallow him up, as though we have not acted a moment too soon. The King has agreed to the Bill.

Now we can make it Law.


	7. A Cruel Decision

Chapter Seven

 _A Cruel Decision_

I have not been amongst the Commons for a long time - not since my brief time as Speaker during my days as Solicitor General. The importance of the bill that is to be debated, however, is such that both Cromwell and I are watching the discussions through a grille in a doorway from Westminster Hall.

Perhaps it is the fact that they sit in the old seats of the Choir of St Stephen's Chapel, but I had forgotten how combative discussions could be between the various burghers. I find myself wondering if, had they stayed in their previous accommodation in the Abbey's Chapter House, seated in the round rather than opposite one another, they might be more accommodating of each others' opinions.

"How much longer shall they take?" I mutter, mostly to myself.

"As long as they need to." Cromwell smiles, looking surprisingly unconcerned, "No matter what their views of how the future shall be faced, we have covered every query, every objection, as best we can. It is merely a matter of waiting until they have argued themselves out."

He may look like a dispassionate observer, but he is clearly watching his son with interest as the young man rises to his feet to offer his views. Given his parentage, he shall have to choose his words with the greatest of care, for fear of his fellows claiming him to have a vested interest in the outcome; but regardless of his lesser capabilities, he has more than sufficient skill to speak well, and without inflaming those who might think him to be a mouthpiece for his father.

The discussion continues for much of the rest of the day, and both Cromwell and I are obliged to abandon our post on several occasions, either to sit for a while, or to see to matters of a more personal nature. Each and every clause is considered, debated, argued upon and tossed back and forth as the members seek to shake out any matters of contention. Perhaps we should have stayed at Hampton Court, but the importance of this bill is such that we have both made the journey back to Whitehall, and thence to Westminster, to oversee this most vital moment in the final act of the drama that is the life of Henry the Eighth.

It is as the day is drawing to a close that the members finally rise to cast their votes to approve, or strike out, my carefully drafted Bill. Even as the men divide into the Ayes and Noes, Cromwell is jubilant, "See - the gathering to the right is larger. The Ayes shall have it - and we are secure. All we shall need now is the final assent from his Majesty, and his legacy shall be protected in law."

He is not fool enough to leave before the result of the division is declared, and we are both relieved to hear the confirmation that the Ayes do indeed 'have it'. The Bill has cleared the Commons, and there is no doubt that the Lords of the Council shall not dare to gainsay his Majesty's will. As long, of course, as he has not changed his mind again.

Somehow, however, I do not think that shall happen.

Rather than spend the night at the Palace, instead Cromwell and I both make the journey across the City to Grant's Place aboard one of the last wherries before night falls. My communications with Cecil have been exclusively by letter for far too long, and I am keen to know what progress he has made with the new Index.

Goodwife Dawson is looking distinctly more frail than the last time I saw her, and Cromwell seems most intent upon looking after her more than she wishes to look after him. Fortunately, she has engaged a young woman by the name of Grace Parsons to step into her place; and her protege proves to be more than capable of running the house. So much so, in fact, that she is now already in the process of doing so - and the Goodwife is moving in to a well deserved period of rest at the twilight of her days. Naturally, Cromwell has no intention at all of requiring her to leave Grant's Place.

Cecil emerges from the Library with a surprisingly cheerful expression from a man I thought to be far more serious, "Gentlemen, it is good to see you again." I think he has to almost visibly restrain himself from welcoming us, so settled is he.

"William." I shake his proffered hand, "I am looking forward to seeing how the index is progressing."

"And what of the draft Bill?" he asks, though he is clearly addressing the question to both of us.

"Agreed by the Commons and ready to be put to the council as a singular _fait accompli_." Cromwell answers delightedly, "We are closer than ever to securing the Prince's future without the interference of a self-interested Lord Protector."

"That is good news indeed, my Lord."

"Please call me Thomas, Mr Cecil - you are a Second in training, even if not appointed. We do not stand on formality when we work together to save England and keep ourselves alive."

"Thomas." Cecil nods, politely.

"Excellent. Shall we sup?"

I have not seen Cromwell so light hearted in a goodly number of months, and our supper is most convivial. I think that, such is his dedication to his mission, he is seen by most as an entirely soulless man; but he is not, and never has been. A long career in service to such a mercurial King has given him good reason to keep a tight control of his emotions at Court.

"And what of the supposed Progress to the north?" Cecil asks, as we turn our attentions to an array of rather fine sweetmeats that Miss Parsons has prepared.

"Abandoned and almost certainly forgotten about." I admit, "His Majesty seems to have turned his attention to other matters - primarily to celebrate his Highness's ninth year."

I am not surprised to see Cecil's frown, "Why would he do that? The day of the Prince's birth has not been marked with such attention since his first year."

Cromwell sighs, "I think that I can guess."

As can we all; and our mood seems to darken in an instant. Henry knows that he is dying - and wishes to do what he can to bring his son to the fore before it is too late. Why else would he have finally demanded that we secure the Bill? As darkness falls, so clarity returns to him, and he does what he can while it is still possible. The sweetmeats have suddenly lost their appeal.

* * *

My dreams are again disturbed by vivid, unnerving visions, though they seem less powerful than they did at Hampton Court; and I wake rather unrefreshed. Rather than walk to the Tower wharves to hire a wherry, instead Cromwell sends to Austin Friars for a brace of horses for us to ride back to Whitehall. The grooms there can then return them while we travel back to the King aboard Urban and Benedict. While we wait for the horses to arrive, I spend the time in the Library, looking over the preparatory work Cecil has undertaken for the new Index, and I am as pleased as I am disgruntled at his excellent work. But, as I keep reminding myself, what he lacks is experience, and that, he can only gain from an apprenticeship to me. I really should stop being such a fool.

"He is very talented, Eminence." At least this time my praise isn't _quite_ so grudging.

 _He is - but then, he has the time to become the Second that he should be. You were not granted such a kindness - but you did so, anyway._

Wolsey sounds unusually kindly today - perhaps he knows how sad I am becoming.

 _It is not the end, you know. Death. That is but a mere doorway, and there is more than you can begin to imagine once you have crossed that threshold. Indeed, I suspect that, once we are united in God, we shall become utterly sick of the sight of each other._

I smile at that, "Indeed so; did not Aesop once say that we would often be sorry if our wishes were granted?"

 _An eternity with me. I am sure you are breathless with anticipation of the discussions we shall have_.

"I can hardly wait. I think."

* * *

Our journey back to Hampton Court is a pleasant amble through sunlit countryside that is rich with the golds and bronzes of autumn. We do not push our horses, nor do we push ourselves, stopping for a long, rather leisurely dinner at our favourite of the various wayside inns alongside the road out of London.

While we have a world of uncertainty closing in upon us, the fact that we have the solution almost completed and ready to be set into place is a true relief. Edward shall gain his crown at a far younger age than any of us would have liked, but at least he shall do so surrounded by a group of truly loyal courtiers, and his Mother shall be Regent as he gains the learning and strength to rule in his own right.

"Do you think his Majesty has changed his mind since we left?" I find that I cannot help but be nervous. As the years have passed, the speed at which the King changes his mind has quickened with frightening rapacity.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I think it unlikely, Richie." He reaches for his cup of ale and takes a sip, "Everything about him suggests that he is beginning to accept the truth - and that he also knows far more clearly who to trust than we have ever assumed. It may be that the Queen has spent a good deal of time persuading him who can be trusted, and who cannot - though I have no wish to do him the disservice of thinking him to be weak-willed, for he is not. That is a mistake many have made - while he is indeed susceptible to flattery, sooner or later he recognises it for what it is, and those who flatter find themselves forgotten."

I slump in my seat, "I wish that he were not so ill. He is the only ruler I have known as a man grown; I am almost afraid of the changes that shall come when he is gone - for even we are as children who are to be orphaned."

Cromwell nods, "I, too, feel that fear. He has been at the centre of our universe for so long that I almost cannot imagine how we shall survive when he is gone. His time is near, and there is no escaping that; and yet, if I could extend his life - even by merely wishing it - then I would certainly do so. It is not that I doubt her Majesty's abilities to stand in his stead; for all her lacking in education, she has a remarkable degree of common sense. No - it is the risks we face from those who would seek to remove her, and us; and grasp what power they can while Edward is not yet a man."

"By 'those', I think there is but one man at this time who we must fear."

Again, he nods, and sighs, "Yes."

* * *

Despite our forebodings, there is a great deal of activity at the Palace as we enter the Base Court and hand our horses over to the Grooms. Regardless of his absence, Cromwell has nonetheless ensured that a great deal of work has been done to fulfil his King's wish to celebrate Prince Edward's birthday in style. I have little talent for music, or for any form of the arts, and I had never truly appreciated how educated Cromwell is in such forms. Equally, while I never participate in dances for I cannot keep a rhythm in my head, Cromwell avoids doing so not because he cannot - as I assumed - but merely because all expect him not to, and people find it most disturbing if he does.

While most of the Court shall end the day with a great deal of feasting and dancing, Edward is far too young to enjoy such an event, so Cromwell has instead commissioned a dramatic performance recreating a supposed confrontation between his grandfather and Richard Crookback. While we both know that any such meeting would have been cordial and concerned largely with the defeat of Lamashtu, no one else does.

"I have ensured that there shall be much swordplay and fighting - albeit a pretence - and talk of honour and glory." He advises, as we advance through to the Clock Court, "I suspect that his Majesty shall be equally entertained by it. The afternoon, of course, shall be spent watching a pageant of horsemanship and other displays of skill - and the opportunity for him to try his hand at not a few of them. I believe her Majesty wishes to present him with a fine new Gyrfalcon, as the King has permitted him to have one, for only Kings may fly Gyrs."

That could not be a more obvious statement if it were lit with flares and hoisted upon a mast. Henry knows that he shall not see his boy's tenth birthday, so even now he makes the claim for his son.

Thus we must hope that the Court shall heed it.

* * *

The court is dancing to the strains of a jaunty galliard, while I sit to one side and watch rather enviously. Cromwell sits alongside me, and I notice, to my surprise, that he is tapping his foot along to the tune. How is it that I have never noticed that before? I can remember times when he discussed music with other courtiers, but I had no idea that he could be so wrapped up in the tune that he is hearing. I suppose we have always been too intent upon the Mission in the past.

Edward is a happy boy, awash with fine gifts from his parents, and those who wish to curry favour with him in later times. His fine Gyrfalcon is now ensconced in the mews, and granted the name Lancelot, while he is the proud owner of a mettlesome new charger, Perceval, magnificent new riding furniture, a superb longbow and crossbow, and a set of pistols, though he is not yet permitted to fire them.

The gifts he has received from the most senior courtiers are also legion and equally fine - silks, jewels and furs to adorn him; though neither Cromwell nor I have participated in this outpouring of largesse. Had we done so, then we would be beset by suspicion; but we have, between us, obtained a fine sword from the maker in Toledo who created Wyatt's magnificent silver-inset blade. It has been decorated and tooled expertly with the mythical beasts that form his Highness's Arms, and we have also added the motto _Bis vincit qui se vincit in victoria_ , from the writings of Publilius Syrus. Given the rather mercurial nature of his father, Cromwell considers it important that Edward appreciate the virtue of self-control. We shall present it to him on behalf of the Queen's Council at our next meeting.

I rouse myself from my thoughts to see that Cromwell is smiling quite benignly, a trait that his enemies find most unsettling - though it is exactly what it is: he is contented and enjoying the evening. Most of those who dance now are quite young, the three Dudley brothers are with one or other of the Queen's ladies, though Ambrose looks rather keen to escape the prattling of Miss Howard. To be fair to her, she is a fine dancer - but she seems unable to move her legs without also moving her lips.

It is then that I notice that Robert is dancing with the Lady Elizabeth, and I am hard put not to stare in astonishment. Surely he is too low born to be partnering the daughter of a King? But no, his Majesty is watching her with an indulgent smile, so he sees no threat from a youth so lacking in land and prospects.

Edward is avoiding the possibility of boredom thanks to the Duke of Suffolk, who listens patiently as the boy recalls the pageant that afternoon. That Suffolk was also present seems not to matter, and he cheerfully recounts his own recollections.

No wonder Cromwell is smiling. I cannot recall a time when our Court seemed more at peace. What a shame that it is merely a veneer that rests over a turbulent maelstrom that requires only one incident to spring it forth.

No. Enough fretting for tonight. Our Prince has reached his ninth year, and is happy to be with his family this night. I suspect that he shall be required to return to his own household before Christmastide, and he is thus grasping every opportunity to enjoy some precious hours with his parents. I would wish that for my own sons, would I not?

As the evening draws to a close, Sir Richard Page arrives to escort the Prince back to his apartments. Despite all, the boy does not protest, for he is clearly tired, and all wish him a good night, before returning to their cups of wine, or making their own way to bed. We, naturally, shall make a final tour of the passageways before we do likewise.

* * *

Most have departed from the hall and either gone in search of additional entertainment, found additional entertainment, or retired for the night as Cromwell and I reconvene in far shabbier garb than that which we wore when we were at the celebrations. As always, we are armed only with short blades, for Cromwell has not sensed ichor for many months, and this remains the case.

Our patrolling is disturbed but rarely, as we come across - and avoid - a drunken baron, several stewards and a couple who seem attentive upon each other in a most unnervingly carnal fashion. I am much better at moving silently these days, though I still cannot match Cromwell in terms of stealth - stiff back or no.

It is as we are making our way through the Fish Court that Cromwell pauses and holds up his hand to stop me. Rather than speak, he turns, and points to his eyes, indicating that he has seen something, then holds up two fingers to indicate two somethings. Whether they be men or demons, I know not, but I do know to remain absolutely silent, and thus keep back aways, for fear of knocking something over as I pass it. I am still dreadfully clumsy, and the last thing I want is to scare off these two unknown figures.

Cromwell is crouching at the corner of the passageway as I join him, moving far more slowly than he.

"…new men shall not have ascendancy. I shall not permit it!" The voice is very low, but unmistakeable. Surrey is beyond that corner.

"They have the ear of the King, and the Queen; you'll never shake 'em off." Another voice whispers back. That voice, I cannot recognise.

"Seymour is a thorn in the side of the true nobility." Surrey spits, viciously, "And that black crow Cromwell. I thought him destroyed, but he is in league with darker powers than any I know to have survived an attainder as he did. Between them, they shall be the undoing of all that is right in the realm. Low-born men are not meant to govern those of high estate."

"You can't destroy them. There's no means to do it." The second voice insists, worriedly.

"I do not have to destroy them." Surrey insists, "His Royal Highness returns to Windsor in two days' time, while the Court departs for Placentia before Christmastide. Once the boy is out of the grasp of his uncle, it shall be a simple matter for those suited to be his protectors to oust those who are not. He can be removed to a place of safety from such unwanted influences, and thus all shall be secure. I have no doubt that, once he is back with his own kind, he shall be pleased to dismiss those of low birth from his Council."

I feel myself tense to move, convinced that Cromwell shall step forth and challenge Surrey for his treacherous words, but instead he rests a hand upon my arm, and I see a slight shake of his head. Instead, we remain where we are, and the two agree to meet at another time - to be decided - before each departs.

We are absolutely silent as we return to Cromwell's apartments, but in that time, I realise that he was right to remain concealed, "Forgive me, Thomas; in my rash intent to challenge Surrey, I could have ruined all. You wish for him to be unmasked for what he is, do you not?"

He hands me a cup of hippocras, "There is nothing to forgive, Richie; your movement woke me from a similar sense of determination to step forth. If we act now, then we do nothing but create uproar. That said," he sighs, "it could not be clearer that Surrey intends to act against us. He is blinded to reality by his determination to cleave to the ascendancy of blood. The world is changing - but he is not."

"Do you think he would really do it?" I ponder, "Abduct the Prince?"

"Yes. I do."

* * *

Our first order of business at the Queen's Council is the induction of Sir William Paget, who has not yet been present at our meetings. The fact that not only her Majesty, but also the Prince himself are present serves as a pointed statement to him that he is now a member of a select group, and that his presence is owing to his loyal service.

It is Suffolk that makes the initial introductions, as his unimpeachable loyalty to the King is more than sufficient to induce belief in the new arrival at our table, "As I explained to you, Sir William, there is more to the government of England than those who sit at the Council table. For many years, we assumed that our work was sufficient - but there was much going on of which we knew nothing. The work to combat enemies that we did not even see was undertaken by the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal without our ever noticing it."

Paget, a thin, spare man with piercing blue eyes, thick dark hair and a remarkably aquiline nose, nods, but says nothing.

Suffolk looks across at Cromwell, "Your Grace?"

I think I shall never tire of both hearing the story of Cromwell's journey to this Council table, nor shall I tire of the look of astonishment that generally starts as scepticism, but soon moves on to startled belief once the wondrous raven blades are drawn. Like all who see them, Paget is offered the opportunity to handle one, and he is as surprised as I was by its astonishing lightness.

"Silver and steel, your Grace?" He queries.

"Indeed - a merging of the finest qualities of both. Were it possible to demonstrate the efficacy of these swords, then I would do so - but we have not been required to dispatch creatures of a demonic bent for some considerable time."

"That is, perhaps, good news?" Paget ventures.

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "For it means that they have been pressed into service as foot soldiers in the armies of those who contest for the right to take England for their own. Lamashtu was already present in England when I first returned to these shores - but any infernal creature that eventually succeeds in claiming the chance to subjugate England would need to start from a lesser position."

Paget swallows, nervously.

"Before we continue," Cromwell changes the subject smoothly, "there is one matter that should be attended to immediately." He turns to the Prince, "Your Highness, before you return to your own Household, we of your Council-to-be felt it appropriate that you be granted a gift for your birthday. In deference to the secrecy of our Mission, however, it was felt best that we do so now, rather than upon the day of celebration itself."

"Truly, your Grace?" The youth sits up, looking interested and not a little excited.

How rarely people at court see this man smile - but when he does, it is worth it. Turning to a nearby sideboard, he retrieves a long roll of flannel, before approaching Edward and going down upon one knee, "For you, Highness. A token of our esteem and loyalty to you as our Prince and, in time, our King."

Slowly, almost reverentially, the Prince takes the bundle, and carefully unwraps it to reveal the wondrous curved blade, safely girded in a fine leather sheath the colour of burgundy wine. Setting the wrapping down, he turns to his mother, "Majesty, may I?"

"Of course you may." She smiles, "But be careful - I have no doubt that this weapon is deadly sharp."

The blade, once revealed, is as fine as those that Cromwell bears, though the decoration is - of course - different. Perhaps most boys would start waving it about and thus do something foolish, such as cut themselves; but Edward does not. Instead, he looks over it with the greatest of care, before gently returning it to its sheath, "I am quite overcome, Sirs, by your kind gift, and the loyalty that it signifies. Thank you."

God above, he is less than ten years old - and he speaks like a man grown. Behind him, his mother smiles, pleased; though there is also a hint of sadness there - for the child is being forced to be a man far before his time, and equally, her husband is soon to be taken from her. Despite his infirmity, despite his faults, they have proved to be a great match after the sad collapse of his marriage to Queen Katherine, and the awful disaster that was wrought upon his marriage to Queen Anne.

"It is time for you to retire, Edward." She says, briskly, "There are matters that we must discuss that you do not need to hear at this time."

"Yes Ma'am."

What - not even a hint of an objection? I was not so obedient at the age of nine, I am sure of it.

Rising from her seat, Lady Rochford escorts the youth from the chamber, and thus we can turn to the matter of greater concern: Surrey's intent to abduct him from Windsor.

"I cannot believe he could do such a thing against his lawful King's will." the Queen says, with surprising heat for one so usually placid. Like all mothers, she is a tigress over the protection of her offspring.

"I do not think he does so for specific reasons of personal power." Cromwell advises, quietly, "Perhaps that might emerge once he has acted - but at this moment, his desire is solely to remove those of us he considers to be unsuitable for government. He believes that he can persuade his Royal Highness to dismiss or attaint those of us of low birth, thereby leaving the Council in the hands of noblemen."

"How intriguing that he does not include me in that group." Suffolk observes, blandly. None of us are blind to his less than noble origins, "But then, I do outrank him, do I not?"

"Observations are all very well, Gentlemen," The Queen says, a little crossly, "What are we to do?"

"If he could be persuaded," I step in, "the ideal solution would be to bring him into this Council. But we know that he would rather fling himself into hell itself than deign to work with men such as Lord Cromwell and I. Thus we must look to a less palatable alternative."

"Which is?" Paget asks, though it is clear from his expression that he has already guessed our intentions.

"We must allow him to act - and catch him in doing so." Cromwell says, quietly, "We must set a trap."

* * *

Her Majesty's expression of distaste reflects our own. To discuss setting a trap that shall bring a nobleman down, and almost certainly send him to his death is not something that I ever thought we would have to do again after the awfulness of the Boleyn affair. I do not need to look across to Cromwell to know that he is no more happy than I. It seems that even now we cannot escape that dreadful poison of conspiracy and politicking.

"I am not pleased that we must do this, Gentlemen." She says, eventually.

"Your displeasure matches ours, Majesty." Suffolk agrees, tiredly, "Were it not necessary to protect his Highness from a faction that wishes to use him for their own ends, I would have nothing to do with this."

"You would not need to, your Grace," I add, "For we would not be doing it."

"Indeed we would not." Cromwell agrees, "It must be done for the sake of the Mission - as the others were, and hope with all of our hearts that only one man shall fall, and not take many more in his wake. I have enough innocent blood upon my hands; and I cannot stand to add more."

To everyone's surprise, the Queen reaches across, and rests her hand upon one of his, "What we must do, we must do, my Lord. If there is no other choice, then it shall be done for the sake of the Kingdom, and my son."

His eyes sad, he nods, "Yes, Majesty."

Our mood is no better the next morning, as Cromwell joins me in my quarters to break our fast together, "We should set one of the spies upon this, Richie," he advises, quietly, "There is no other way - for he would be alerted should we use any of our own men."

Now that I have charge of the spies, I sit back and think, chewing at a mouthful of bread and butter. As we know so little about the depth of Surrey's plot, the risk of alerting him through our ignorance is very high. Fortunately, I do have one man I can turn to, as we have a man in the Palace Guard, by the name of Tomkinson. He has his ear to the ground in an astonishing number of places, and would have little difficulty in establishing the best method for us to bait Surrey into action.

"We don't know enough yet, Thomas. I shall have some enquiries made first."

"Tomkinson?" Cromwell has already guessed my intention, "If he cannot find it out, then no one can. He is a wise choice. I have stepped into danger blindly before, and I do not intend to do so again."

My means of summoning our spy is simple. Each morning, he undertakes a patrol of a parterre garden below my apartments. If I wish to see him, I place a lit candle in a specific window if it is dark, or I open that window in daylight. Not my preference in the winter, I admit - but he is not long about it.

"You have work for me, Sir?" he asks once I have admitted him and closed the door.

"I need you to investigate the intentions of the Earl of Surrey, Mr Tomkinson." I advise him, "Though, knowing you as I do, I suspect you already know much of what I seek."

"I suspect that I do, Mr Rich." Like many who serve the Order, he does not refer to me as either a Peer or as The Lord Privy Seal. To them, my rank as Second to the Raven far outstrips the worth of any other rank that I hold, "He is already seeking allies who might aid him in a plan to waylay the Prince when he is back to Windsor. Much of his questioning is careful - but not careful enough, for his arrogance makes him bolder than he should be. Even one of Wriothesley's creatures could have found him out but for my care to ensure that they do not."

I am not surprised at his knowledge, nor am I surprised that he knew what I was seeking when I summoned him, though it is rather unexpected that he has taken pains to ensure that the small group of spies that Wriothesley has established over the last few years is kept ignorant.

"I have no wish for them to blunder in and disturb all, Mr Rich. The Secretary's men are an embarrassment to our calling." Tomkinson's voice drips scorn. Needless to say, his comment inspires a mildly spiteful glee in me. I really should know better.

"What opportunity is there for us to cast some bait?" I ask. There is, after all, no point in doing so if he is not primed and ready to bite.

"More than one might suppose." Tomkinson advises, "While I have done all I can to keep Wriothesley's men out of the picture, they are the more sensible route to use, I think."

"Of course." I agree, "Wriothesley, for all his lower rank than ours, is still more of a nobleman than either Cromwell or I. Surrey would be almost primed automatically to trust a man from his stable. In which case, we shall make use of their aura of respectability. Speak to Bull to secure appropriate credentials for one of our London men. Carpenter, for choice. In the meantime, I shall manufacture a document that is carefully worded to suggest that the King intends to vest the future safety of the Kingdom in Mr Cromwell as Lord Protector. Given that Surrey almost believes that to be so already, and we shall inspire him to act against us without hesitation."

Tomkinson nods, "And Carpenter shall 'uncover' this document, and, acting on Wriothesley's behalf, make contact with Surrey's men."

"Exactly."

"I shall see to it, Mr Rich. I take it you shall create this document?"

"Between Mr Cromwell and I, it shall be as convincing as we can make it. Advise me when Bull's work is done."

* * *

Cromwell is both pleased, and not pleased, when I present him with our plan, "It is a good plan, Richie. I wish, nonetheless, that it was not one we must implement."

"Nor I, Thomas. Even though all is as close to settled as it can be, as we lack only the King's signature and assent, we still have that small window of opportunity, as no one in the Council has yet seen the final bill. And thus we must do what we must do."

"God, why is it so hard?" Cromwell protests, suddenly, "I should give all I have to not be obliged to do what we must do - but Surrey will not permit me to act in any other way. Edward is the rightful King in waiting, not Surrey - that was decided upon the field at Bosworth - and my only concern is that he should come into his inheritance a strong and capable ruler. We have a Queen to act as Regent - and thus we do not need a Lord Protector; just a solid, loyal Council to serve Queen Mother and King. But Surrey will not permit it."

"He is an old-blood noble, Thomas." I remind him, needlessly, "To his mind, it is his right to stand in the stead of a boy-king, not his common-born mother, nor his common-born uncle. And as for you and I - we are anathema. He would tolerate Suffolk - but only because he could not gainsay a Duke."

"He should stick to bloody poetry."

I snort with amusement, "If that were so, then all should be well."

The document we formulate between us is as incriminating as we can make it. It is in Cromwell's handwriting, and suggests that he has been working for many months to circumvent the very Bill we have spent so long bringing to fruition, as it contains carefully worded phrases that can be interpreted as legally binding clauses that he can persuade the King are instead quite innocuous. Thus, even if we _do_ present the Bill to the Council, Surrey can be induced to believe that Cromwell has taken steps to secure his own power. Surrey is quite convinced that Cromwell is devious enough to do it, so I cannot imagine that he would suspect that he is being gulled.

None notice the arrival of Carpenter, a short, magnificently nondescript individual with no distinguishing features of note at all, as he makes his way into the Mews at the exact same time that the young Prince is preparing to depart back to Windsor prior to Christmastide, while Elizabeth is also preparing for her own departure - in her case, to Hatfield, her favourite residence when not with her parents.

Despite the hubbub, it cannot be clearer that the young Prince wishes to stay with his family - but already that sense of duty that comes with royal blood is firmly set upon him, and he takes his leave with that same cheerful formality that accompanied his arrival. Elizabeth is no less dutiful, but her eyes look out as though searching for someone, and I note, with mild dismay, that her eyes settle almost at once upon that young Robert Dudley. Such a shame - he is so far below her station that, no matter how much she wishes it, she cannot marry him. Just as well she is leaving, then; perhaps the separation shall ease the risk of heartache as she is forced to accept her future is not with him.

The dual entourages leave with a great clattering of hoofs, and those of us who came out to see them off make our way back inside. Rather than return to the offices, I instead make my way back to my apartments. All of the Spies know the location of my residences, and I am not surprised to see Carpenter seated beside the fire, a cup of sack in hand courtesy of John.

He rises as I enter; again his respect for me based upon my rank as a Second, rather than my Court position, "I have the relevant credentials, Mr Rich. I am ready to go to work as soon as you wish it."

"If I am to be truly honest, Mr Carpenter," I admit, "I should wish it that you not have to go to work at all. We should much rather that our quarry be willing to work with us than against us; but he would threaten the Mission, and so we must act against him."

"We are often required to act against our conscience, Mr Rich. Such is the obligation placed upon us by our calling."

Retrieving the false document from a coffer, I sit down opposite Carpenter, indicating he do likewise, "This is the document. We have taken the greatest of care to ensure that it is as authentic in both tone and content as possible. It purports to be a document that the Raven has written that shall circumvent the provisions of the Succession Bill and grant him the position of Lord Protector."

Carpenter nods, and smiles; "Crafty, Mr Rich."

"Absolutely. Surrey is already convinced that we plan to do this - so all it shall do is confirm his belief." I hand the document to him, "Advise me when he bites. I shall leave the means by which you cast your bait in your hands - for you are by far the better hand at such matters as this."

"I shall see to it. Any message shall come to you via Baxter."

"Agreed."

* * *

The Council table is tense - not merely because of the stench of the King's legs, and his dreadful temper - but also because today the Succession Bill is to be considered finally by the Council before it receives his Majesty's Assent. All at the table hope to secure a place on the Regency Council, but that shall be a matter for his Highness, and her Majesty, when the time comes. The Queen's Council, of course, shall be at the forefront - but no one at this table knows it. Not even the King.

The document has no issues of contention, and not even Surrey demurs when the King asks for our agreement that the bill shall become an Act. That said, I can see Surrey glaring at us with shocking venom, and I know that Carpenter must have made contact. The great risk, of course, is that he shall denounce us here and now - but our great hope is that he shall instead bide his time. Given the degree of favour that Cromwell holds, it is quite possible that the King shall not believe the younger Howard. Besides, he has laid his plans, and I have no doubt that he has no intention of involving his Majesty in those plans to remove us.

A scratching of a nib, a flourish, and the Bill has become an Act. The succession is now secure, and there shall be no Lord Protector. The Council shall be appointed by the Prince, under advisement from his mother, who shall be Regent, and the Duke of Suffolk, who shall lead the Councillors. Cromwell and I shall operate in an administrative capacity only - which, regardless of others' opinions, is just as we would wish it.

"I expect you all to abide by this law, Gentlemen." Henry wheezes, "It is my legacy, and the best hope of the Realm."

He sits back and listens to the murmured assent of his councillors with a degree of his old pride. All is done.

* * *

Baxter is waiting in my apartments with a long letter from Carpenter, that I am quick to share with Cromwell, "It has worked, Thomas. Even now, Surrey is conspiring with Carpenter to take control of the Prince by force. As he is safely back to Windsor, to do so shall be extremely difficult. Carpenter reports that he has been tasked with seeking out Guards at the Castle who would be amenable to Surrey's plan - either willingly, or in exchange for a financial incentive. I take it that any who agree to do so shall also find themselves facing the block?"

Cromwell doesn't answer. Instead, he nods.

"When shall we act against him?"

"Not yet - it's too soon. We must have evidence that the plan is being put into action, not merely that it exists. All must be sure. Besides, it may be that Surrey shall pull back from it, and decide instead that it is better to cooperate with us than go against us. A foolish hope, perhaps, but still one that I cling to."

That does not surprise me. If we could work _with_ Surrey rather than _against_ him, then it would be to the benefit of all. But he will not have it that way, and so we must act first.

After a week, Carpenter reports back that he is now a trusted part of an organised conspiracy, with Surrey at its head. Remarkably, they were unable to find any guard who would be willing to allow them access to the Prince; and, indeed, had to back-track quite considerably on several occasions to avoid guards reporting their activities - though the approaches were extremely surreptitious, and carried out through intermediaries, so even had the guards reported, it would have been impossible to find the perpetrators. Surrey may be impetuous, but he is not _that_ stupid.

The plan is simple enough - since they have been unable to secure entry to the Castle, instead they shall enter the Park, and wait for the Prince to ride out; a favoured pastime that he undertakes each day. Then they shall ambush the party, secure the Prince with all due deference to his illustrious state, and remove him to what they term as 'a place of safety', doubtless comfortable and suitable for a royal personage, but out of the reach of those who intend to stand with him, rather than control him.

On that same day, he adds, Cromwell and I are to be separately assassinated - I laugh at this: someone assassinate _Thomas Cromwell? -_ and the King quietly helped upon his way to forgetfulness with a strong sleeping draught. Queen Jane shall be dispatched to a quiet Manor in the country, while Hertford is condemned as a traitor along with his brother Thomas Seymour, and the pair executed as such.

Despite my amusement at the thought of some poor fool being assigned to kill Cromwell, the depths of the plan are quite astonishing in their audacity. Surrey is putting a great deal of faith in what is, in all honesty, a ridiculous plot. Does he truly believe that so many individual plans can run together in harness? All that is required is for one component to fail, and he is lost. Cromwell may be hated - but he is powerful, and there are few in the Council who would side against him given the favour he has from the King. Should he survive, then it would be a simple matter for him to rally the Council, and troops - and then what? Would Surrey risk all by threatening to harm the Prince?

We exchange a glance, and I know that, yes, he would.

* * *

Our opportunity comes three days after Carpenter places the clinching evidence in my hands, and is dispatched back to the House for his own safety. We now know that there shall be one more meeting of the conspirators in a week's time - at a tavern in the village of Datchet - and we must be there, for once they discover that Carpenter is not present, it is highly likely that they shall realise they are discovered - and we shall lose our chance to end the matter.

His eyes narrowed, the King reads the papers with the evidence that has been gathered - some of it in Surrey's own hand, "How long have you known of this plot, my Lord Cromwell?"

There is no pleasure upon his face as he answers, "For some few weeks, Majesty. It was, however, not until today that I was in possession of fit evidence to assure you that the conspiracy is real. Prior to that, it could merely have been the foolish boasting of a proud man."

These days, being as highly placed as I am, I stand with Cromwell at meetings such as this, and I am no more enjoying it than Cromwell. The Howard family is illustrious - and the suggestion that one of the family is intending such a ghastly strike against his lawful King is a real stain upon the Howard name.

"What is your intention?"

"That we also attend the meeting, Majesty. All are expected to be present - including Surrey - and thus the entire viper's nest shall be neutralised. The evidence against him is irrefutable."

"He would take my son from me, and aim to rule through him." Henry mutters, darkly, "One of my own. I should never have thought it so - but was he not a Plantagenet? Perhaps I should have ensured that all of that vile line be removed."

"There is still time, Majesty." Cromwell says, "It may be that we can persuade my Lord Surrey that it is in the interests of all to stand as a loyal Council to the Prince, and grant the Regency to his mother?"

"What I know of Surrey suggests otherwise, my Lord. Thus you have my agreement. Root out these vile conspirators and arrest them all. To the Tower with them, and then to the block. I will not have my realm so threatened. Have Mr Whorwood draw up the appropriate warrants."

"Yes, Majesty." Together, we withdraw.

"And so to Datchet." He sighs as we return to our offices.

* * *

Rather than leave the palace on the appointed day, Cromwell departed for a period of leave to Austin Friars two days ago, and I left for Grant's Place yesterday. The guards who are to aid us in effecting the arrest departed to Windsor at the beginning of the week, and, to our knowledge, the conspirators are unaware that they are discovered.

I depart for Datchet the day prior to our planned interruption, and I am not surprised to find that Cromwell is already installed in the quiet country inn that we have selected as our base of operations. Not trusting any of his usual spies, he instead has another of the House's many operatives watching the village, and already he has news that most of those who are working with Surrey are present. Until Surrey himself arrives, however, we must not move against them.

It seems most bizarre that we should be involved in such an enterprise; for though we have acted against conspiracies before, most of our work to apprehend enemies has been aimed solely at infernal opponents. To be facing men with plans that conflict with our own is altogether more unnerving. What if Surrey has caught wind of our action? Will he come to the Village? What shall we do if he does not?

As the time of the meeting draws nearer, Cromwell meets with the detachment of guards in a copse outside the village boundaries, and greets the Captain.

"Is it true, my Lord?" the man asks, for it is only now that he knows against whom we are acting, "Would my Lord of Surrey truly act against his own King?"

"I think he does not see it in such terms, Captain." Cromwell admits, "He is a proud nobleman, and it seems most likely to me that he considers himself to be acting in the best interests of the Kingdom. He is wrong; but it was not until he chose to act upon his views that they became counter to the security of the realm."

He pauses, and goes still, "Surrey is here."

"How do you know?" I ask, for I have seen no sign of it.

"Look at that line of sheets that are drying in that cottage yard." He points at the washing line. Amongst the white sheets is one that is red. Clearly set there as a signal, 'Had that been blue, then I should know that Surrey did not attend. But it is red, so he has arrived."

Rather than march the guards up the narrow main street of the village, thereby warning all and sundry of our approach, instead he divides the group into two, one to approach the inn from the front, the other from behind. Even though Surrey seems not to know he is discovered, Cromwell cannot believe that he would not have at least one man on watch.

As we conceal ourselves in a stand of trees close to the rear yard of the inn, Cromwell is intent upon the door, "If Surrey does not realise that his plans are in jeopardy by now, then he is a fool. Carpenter has not arrived, and that alone should be a sign that he is either fled or taken."

We hear, rather than see, the entry of the guards into the front of the inn, while the others approach the rear to catch any who might attempt to flee from the back door. Sure enough, some do - and are quickly stopped. I am not surprised when one of them turns out to be Surrey.

Held by two guards, struggling furiously, he shouts and swears at them, demanding that they release him. He is, after all, an Earl.

As he approaches, Cromwell brandishes the warrant, which has been signed and sealed in the King's presence, "According to this warrant, my Lord, that is no longer the case."

"Damn you, you vile, craven ground-crawler!" Howard snaps at him, all but spitting in his rage, "Do you think me a fool? You and your common born cohorts aim to rob us of our rightful inheritance!"

"I aim to ensure that his Highness is not robbed of his." Cromwell advises calmly, "It does not serve you well to claim that I seek that to which I am not entitled. I am an Earl, but not by birth - and so I would never presume to rise to such a state as you claim to demand. Know that your title is forfeit, as are your goods and your lands. His Majesty may be disposed at some future time to grant your lost possessions back to your son - but at this time, they belong to the Crown. You are arrested for high treason, in that you have plotted to seize the person of the Prince of Wales, heir to the Crown of England. You shall be transported henceforth to the Tower, and kept separately from your various conspirators - who shall also be held apart from each other."

"The people shall not stand for this!"

"Perhaps not - but the King shall not stand for your conspiring against him. Given the evidence of your treachery, I have no doubt that the people shall not stand for _that_ , either." He nods to the Captain of the Guard, who bundles Surrey away.

"I should have preferred not to have been obliged to do that." Cromwell admits, as we walk together back to the stand of trees where we have tethered our horses.

"Perhaps - but I am grateful that I did not have to find out whether the plan to murder me was true." I add.

Our ride back to Windsor is undertaken in silence. While we have acted for the safety of the Prince, neither of us would have wanted to do so in such manner. No matter what our motives, we have placed a great Lord in the Tower. I had hoped that I should never be obliged to do such a thing again.


	8. A Sequence of Shocks

Chapter Eight

 _A Sequence of Shocks_

The mood in the King's Privy Chamber is sombre, to say the least. No one at the table is willing to speak, and the King's face is like thunder. The Howards are, of course, quite conspicuous by their absence, for not only Surrey, but also Norfolk, are now imprisoned. It would seem inconceivable that the elder did not approve, or at least know of, the younger's plans.

If only it had not had to come to this. We all know how capable and intelligent Henry Howard can be; but that is mitigated - to the point of submission - by his towering arrogance and pride. Even his Majesty has come to see that the world in which we live is changing, and that the nobility cannot hold exclusive power over the commons any longer. Regardless of the peerages he has bestowed upon Cromwell and myself, we are still not of noble blood; but our abilities have spoken for themselves, and - at the last - the King has recognised that. That we almost fell when those of higher birth tried to destroy us - but did not, is proof enough, I think that the days of the Nobility as sole rulers of England's fate are numbered. Talent is finally beginning to overcome blood.

But there is no jubilation in that knowledge. Two of the highest of England's nobles now reside in the Tower under threat of attainder and almost certainly death. All look at Cromwell and I as the architects of this horrible turnabout, and I am not unaware of the hostility that they bear us for our presumption to stand above those of higher birth than ours. Do they care that we didn't want this any more than they did?

"A vile conspiracy." Henry mutters, eventually, "Men of such favour, such high birth. And they looked to take all from me."

No one speaks. Cromwell is too wise to do so - for he knows that his words now shall serve only to anger his King, not soothe him. I also know this, and hold my tongue.

"God knows - I've always known Surrey was a proud man, and arrogant with it - but this? To try to control my son by force? To steal him away? It is beyond countenance!"

Silence.

"My Lord Hertford," The King continues, "I am placing you in charge of the trial. They must not escape punishment for their treachery! I will not have it, damn them!"

"Yes Majesty." Hertford nods, but again says nothing. It is no surprise to any of us that the King cares nothing for the fact that all of his most loyal councillors were to be eliminated in one way or another. All that matters to him is that his son was to be snatched away and used by another for their own gain. Does he care that his Queen was to be shut away? Perhaps - but first and foremost is the threat to his heir, and that is the one thing that shall kill his love absolutely and forever.

The meeting makes no further progress, and instead we are dismissed. Our dark mood follows us back to the offices, and I am not long in joining Cromwell in his quiet, paper stacked chamber. There has been no victory in this, any more than there was with the Boleyns; and even the cup of sack that he offers me holds no appeal.

"Look at this, Richie." Cromwell hands me a sheet of paper, "It was found in Surrey's quarters; I think it was only recently finished."

Intrigued I reach for the document, and then, as I read the words upon it, I feel myself sag in my chair.

 _Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,_

 _I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear._

 _And every thought did shew so lively in mine eyes,_

 _That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, as cause of thought did rise._

 _I saw the little boy in thought how oft that he_

 _Did wish of God to scape the rod, a tall young man to be._

 _The young man eke that feels his bones with pains opprest,_

 _How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest._

 _The rich old man that sees his end draw on so sore,_

 _How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more._

 _Whereat full oft I smiled, to see how all these three,_

 _From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree._

 _And musing thus I think, the case is very strange,_

 _That man from wealth, to live in woe, doth ever seek to change._

 _Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my wither'd skin,_

 _How it doth shew my dented chews, the flesh was worn so thin._

 _And eke my toothless chaps, the gates of my right way,_

 _That opes and shuts as I do speak, do thus unto me say :_

 _' Thy white and hoarish airs, the messengers of age,_

 _That shew, like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage ;_

 _Bid thee lay hand, and feel them hanging on thy chin ;_

 _The which do write two ages past, the third now coming in._

 _Hang up therefore the bit of thy young wanton time :_

 _And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life define.'_

 _Whereat I sigh'd and said : ' Farewell ! my wonted joy ;_

 _Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me to every little boy ;_

 _And tell them thus from me ; their time most happy is,_

 _If, to their time, they reason had, to know the truth of this._

How can a man capable of such beauty and – yes, wisdom – as this be the same as the man who acted so precipitately against his own King's wishes?

Cromwell then hands me another paper, "It is as though there are two Henry Howards, Richie – for there is this, also."

This paper has little in the way of writing upon it, but instead a crudely rendered drawing of Surrey's arms. Within it is the device of the Confessor – entitled though he is to display it, to do so now, at such a time of this? While we all knew that he had done it, to see it set out before me is a stark contrast to the glorious poetry that I have just read. Only a man of great arrogance and self-belief would do such a thing at a time when his King sees all about him as a threat to his legacy. It could not be clearer to those who play the game of politics in the Tudor Court that Surrey is staking a claim to be of foremost importance in the new reign once Henry is dead.

No – the words of beauty, and the symbol of arrogance are indeed two facets of the same man. Like a diamond that is flawed: glorious in many aspects, but utterly devalued by that one error.

"If any man looks upon us with loathing for this, then they merely reflect that which is in my mind." I admit, swirling the liquid in the cup, "It is no comfort to know that the Prince is safe - not when we have been obliged to remove a man who could have been one of the brightest stars of his Regency Council."

Cromwell sighs, "That is true, Richie. I wish, beyond all things, that we had not had to do this. While I am certain that Surrey had designs for his future role in the next reign, I now look upon it and wonder if, in doing what we did, we drove him to do what he did?"

"In what way?" I look up, surprised.

"Had we not laid a false document before him, might he have realised that his intentions were foolish, and instead found a way to work with us? Instead, he saw a plan that would leave him shut out of all – and attempted to strike first."

Ah – hindsight; that most cruel of harpies that sits upon our shoulders and fills us with doubt over that which we have done and cannot undo. "We had evidence that he intended to take steps to oust us and govern the Prince in our place."

"But how much of that was supposition on our own account? Were we so convinced that we could not work with him because he would not work with us – or because we were convinced he would not?"

I think back to the time that Surrey assaulted me in the corridor, "No – the quartering of his arms suggests that he would not, Thomas. The fact that he threatened me to my face suggests that he would not. Regardless of his great talents as a poet and scholar, he was raised in the knowledge that he was descended from kings. That he was prepared to flaunt that descent at such a time as this is foolish in the extreme – for those kings were not Tudor. As Henry Howard is far from unintelligent, my only conclusion can be that he has done so out of arrogance and the belief that he is the only man at the Council table who has any right to govern the future reign of a prince."

"I know that you are right, Richie." Cromwell sighs, "But nonetheless, we have – between us – brought down a talented and cultured man; and we shall never know now whether he might have come around to our way of thinking."

"What's done is done, Thomas. Re-thinking our deeds and second-guessing them shall achieve nothing. We did what we did on the foundation of what we knew at the time. If that foundation proves to be sand, then we must bear the burden of it and know that our intentions were in good faith."

"I do not think us to be wrong." he says, turning his cup in his hands, "It is that endless speculation that we might have found a way to end this differently. Instead, two great Noblemen languish in the tower, and have lost the love of their King."

"There is no doubt they shall go to the block for this." I agree.

"Better that than the noose."

That captures my attention, "Do you think his Majesty would do it? Withhold such clemency? Surely not!"

He frowns and shakes his head, "No, I do not think it - if nothing else, they are high born, and so that in itself shall protect them from the horrors that would be awaiting them at Tyburn. No, it shall be the Hill; or possibly the Green. As it would have been for me."

"But not me." I add, ruefully, "Had it come to it, his Majesty would have offered me no mercy."

"We, however, were innocent." Cromwell reminds me.

"And when has that aided any other who has been sent unjustly to the Tower?" Suddenly, I am shaking, "As we did with those five poor men who had done no wrong when we acted against the Boleyns?"

Rather than speak, instead, Cromwell reaches across and rests a hand on my arm. He understands the guilt that I feel, for he feels it as I do. There was no choice but to do what we did to those poor innocents - for otherwise a demon would have granted Lamashtu the power to destroy all at a stroke. If only it had not been at such a cost.

I hate this place. I hate what it makes us do. I…

"If you decide to agree to the High's invitation, Thomas; I shall not stop you." I say, sadly, "For my wish to remain is tainted by all that I have done - things that future generations would consider with contempt."

"Perhaps, Richie. But as long as I am needed here, I shall stay."

That sense of misery fades, and I look up again, "I am sorry, Thomas. The weight of our actions seems rather heavy this morning."

We are interrupted by a knock on the door, and Wriothesley enters to advise me that some papers have come in that require my attention. I am rarely pleased to be unexpectedly burdened with work, but today it is as welcome to me as rain after a long drought. Anything to divert my mind from the knowledge that we have laid, and sprung, a trap for one of our fellow Councillors. That he would have done the same to us, and we merely acted first, is of little comfort. I have long ceased to derive pleasure from conspiring and plotting; the last time I felt anything akin to it was when I took the stand against Thomas More - and now I despise myself for doing that. I am truly not the man I once was, it seems.

By the time I finish work for the day, however, I have recovered my equilibrium somewhat. As Cromwell is wont to say, the Mission is All, and the demands that it makes of us can be a heavy burden to bear. This is why the Silver Swords placed in the Courts have Seconds, of course. It is not merely academic support we supply - but also a helpful pair of shoulders to share that ghastly weight. The greatest threat to our plans for a smooth succession have been neutralised, and the associated risks to the peace of the Kingdom have also been set aside. That is the best that we can hope for in a cruel world; the rest we must trust to God.

Cromwell has business with the King this evening, it seems, and thus I appear to be required to sup alone - until I find a small note upon the table in my main chamber, which directs me to one of the more opulent suites of guest quarters facing onto the Base Court. It is unsigned, but the writing is familiar, and I hasten out. Wyatt has returned - and his timing, it seems, is as impeccable as ever.

* * *

"I cannot stay for long, alas," Wyatt says, ushering me to the table upon which sits a rather fine repast of venison stew and bread, "I came back to deliver some papers to Thomas on behalf of the resident ambassador at the French Court. It seems that his Majesty is suggesting the possibility of marrying one of his sons to the Lady Elizabeth - but as he is not considering the Dauphin for such a match, I suspect the suit shall be cold."

"A thorny subject indeed, Tom." I smile at him, as one of the stewards sets a plate of victuals before me, and I reach for a spoon, "And one that the Lady herself might not wish to countenance."

"Regardless of her current position in the Succession, Richard, no one would consider her an equal to the heir to the throne - not while her legitimacy is still unsettled. With the Queen Maria, of course, it was different - for the Royal houses on the Continent never considered her bastardy to be valid, and thus were willing to overlook it when Iberia requested her hand for King Miguel."

"Perhaps - but what of you, Tom? Matters of State can be considered another day - you have returned, and all we do is talk business. That is not a suitable subject for the supper table, after all."

Wyatt has always been a genial supper companion, and his tales of his travels are highly enjoyable, for he seems able to tell the most wondrously absurd stories of strange folk customs, people with odd countenances and habits that he has encountered, and all manner of misadventures that are thoroughly entertaining. After the awfulness of the last few days, his tales, and his altogether brighter mood seem almost to be a soothing balm, and I find myself truly laughing for the first time in weeks. God, how I have missed this man's company.

"I shall be here for a few more weeks, I think, Richard. I have - naturally - brought the striped blade with me, for I hope for at least a little sport while I am at Court."

"I fear you shall be disappointed then, Tom," I advise him, "For we have not found any creature of infernal bent for months - and I think we are most grateful for it, as their reappearance shall almost certainly herald the end of the conflicts amongst the higher demons for the right to attempt to take England from us."

"There is always hope for deserters." He grins, cheerfully.

Our meal finished, we settle before the fire with hippocras and a selection of comfits, and I drowse comfortably as Wyatt speaks on. For this one night, all the problems that have beset us; all that we fear for the future, recedes, and I can think myself back to those days when we fought as three, and we knew and could combat the forces ranged against us.

"It is most strange," I muse, looking into the flames, "I lived through those days when I was hunting for the jewels in a state of tense fear of failure - but now, given the uncertainty that we face, I almost wish I could return to them. At least then I knew what I was facing. Now, however, I do not." Suddenly, for reasons I cannot fathom, my eyes are brimming again, "I am afraid, Tom. Everything I knew is threatened, and our world seems upon the edge of collapse."

As always, he does not laugh at me, "All things change in time, Richard - it is the way of the world. But that does not mean we have to like it, or necessarily welcome it. Henry is all that we have known these long years, and to lose him is fearful for it upsets the balance of all that we know, and thus we must shift to accommodate it. To do so is hard."

"The High wants Thomas to return to Milan to become a Master." I add - for this is perhaps the strongest reason for my distress.

"Ah." Wyatt nods, understanding, "And what of you?"

"I must remain to oversee the arrival of his replacement. It is my duty as a Second." And now the tears are escaping. God, must I embarrass myself so?

Wyatt watches me silently as I forcibly compose myself. I have never been able to deceive him over matters such as this, and his solemn gaze is without censure for my foolishness. He knows of the depth of our friendship, for he shares it.

"Must Thomas enter into some form of monastic seclusion should he return to Milan?"

"Of course not - the High oversees all the work of the Order."

"So what is to stop him from writing to you? Or you to him? It is not as though the spies shall read your correspondence, so there is no need for ciphers, codes or oblique statements."

"It is not the same…"

"Indeed it is not - for a letter cannot replace the closeness of your friendship, or the times you spend in each others' company. You are the David and Jonathan in the Court, even as the King and Brandon are not; for you are truly inseparable. And that has made you a formidable edifice against which to foment plots, for his Majesty sees it, and values it as a protection to himself and his son."

"He does?" That, I did not know.

"Of course - I have seen the correspondence of ambassadors, all of whom speak of the trust in which you are held, even if you do not see it. Mercurial, hot-tempered and impulsive our King may be - but he is not, and has never been, stupid. He allowed himself to be deceived but the once, and has learned well not to be so again. Your collective value to this Kingdom is too great - and he recognises that; even if he does not know the true reason why."

"I had never thought him to be so perceptive." I admit, quietly.

"And I think that is his greatest weapon, Richard." Wyatt smiles, "While he can be fooled, and sometimes is, he is not as blind to such things as some people believe. I sometimes believe that his acceptance of your evidence against those who died with Anne was not because he truly believed it, but because it enabled him to end a marriage that he wished to be rid of. He knew, as you did, that it was manufactured at best."

"And, at worst, blatantly false." I add, "But we were fortunate that he revised his view of us as quickly and easily as he did when we were also played false. For I have no doubt that he did believe us to be traitors at first."

"Perhaps - but he does so no longer. Now that his time is drawing near, he wishes to be sure of those who shall accompany his son into a new reign. All know that the best man to do it is Thomas - for he has the intelligence and the skill to ensure strong governance, but has amply demonstrated that he lacks the wish to rule. The work that he has done to create dedicated Government departments here is watched with great interest abroad."

"And it is all for the avoidance of chaos." I add, my mood much improved now, for Wyatt is, as always, talking good sense.

A knock upon the door leads to the arrival of John, "Forgive my intrusion, my Lords - but I have a message from the Lord Chancellor. It is but one word."

"Ichor?" I venture. He nods.

"It seems I shall get my wish, then." Wyatt beams, as we rise from our chairs.

* * *

I have changed into altogether more suitable clothing for a hunt, and collected the Damask blade. Cromwell, in the meantime, has been reacquainting himself with Wyatt, and soon the three of us are out in the passageways again - just as we used to do before he departed.

At first, we see nothing - though this is hardly unexpected - but, after nearly two hours, Cromwell pauses, and we stop immediately as he flinches, for his sensitivity to ichor has once again stung him in the centre of his forehead. It could not be clearer that our quarry lies beyond.

It seems that the ravener in our sights has captured something, though it is soon clear that the victim is nothing more than an unfortunate rat. The creature is clearly starving, as it is thinner even than we are used to seeing - which suggests that it is, as Wyatt jokingly hoped, a deserter from the crowds of lesser beings who are being pressed into the service of those higher up in the demonic ranks. We stand ready to watch, as Cromwell approaches, swords in his hands.

As soon as it notices him, the creature drops the remains of its vile meal, and hisses savagely. At once, it leaps forth, and I expect Cromwell to drop and roll, as he always does.

But he does not.

For a moment, he seems absolutely frozen, and then, when he does drop, he sprawls awkwardly, as though he cannot turn properly - and suddenly the creature is upon him, and he has no option but to cast aside the weapons and push the ravener back from his face.

Once, I might have hesitated in fear, but now, I do not. I have fought these creatures frequently enough to hunt them almost alone - and its distraction proves to aid me as I leap forth and sweep its head from it shoulders in a single cut, the dust to which it falls sprinkling lightly over Cromwell's garments.

"What happened?" Wyatt is beside us at once, appalled, for even though he has commented upon Cromwell's age, he was no more expecting this than I, "Are you alright?"

Slowly, Cromwell rights himself, "My back stiffened, and for a moment I could not move. When I did, it was so stiff that I could not do anything other than fall." He admits, clearly dismayed, "I was unable to turn and roll as I normally would."

There is no mistaking the look of crestfallen sadness upon his face, for he has been defeated by the least of demonic adversaries, and his Second was obliged to step in for him.

We say nothing as we make our way back to his apartments. He is silent, while Wyatt walks beside me in his wake. We are equally shocked by this outcome, though I suspect that Wyatt is less so than I.

Once safely behind closed doors, we set aside cloaks and weapons, while Cromwell sits beside the fire, and gazes into the flames awhile, "So it has come, then."

"What has?" Why am I asking such a stupid question? I know what he means.

"My worth as a Silver Sword in the field is at an end, Richie. If I cannot defeat even a ravener, then I am helpless against more powerful creatures than this. I have still not yet approached the High to request a replacement. Now, I fear, my hand has been forced. I must act, and quickly, for I do not know how long we have before we are faced with a new reign. I cannot believe that no demon shall view that as an opportunity."

"But you cannot leave, Thomas." Wyatt advises, quietly, forestalling an entirely more frantic protest of my own, "Even if you are not able to fight as well as you once did, your political acumen is too important to the Realm to retire at this time. It is best that you retire as a Silver Sword, yes, but that you remain here until all is secure. Once that is done, then you are free to do as you will."

"I should have acted sooner." He sighs, again, "For, in my efforts to secure the succession, I have not secured a successor for myself. I have been a fool - and I am fearful that England shall pay for my foolishness. I was too comfortable, too assured of myself and my skills - and with so capable a Second as you at my side, Richie, I have sunk once more into complacency. You deserve better than this."

I want to reply - but I cannot think of anything to say.

"I have not been assigned to new duties yet, Thomas." Wyatt advises, "Other than a visit to my friend Sir John Horsey in Dorset this Christmastide, I am free to remain at Court. In the absence of a Silver Sword, we shall use your ability to sense ichor to continue our hunts, and then Richard and I shall slay what we find. All is not lost."

Cromwell looks up at him, "That is a gracious offer, Tom, and one that I am relieved to accept. I cannot expect Richard alone to step into my place, for that is unfair - but if you are both present, then we can share the burden of kills should there be more raveners in the palace, and that shall keep all three of us safe."

Finally I find words of my own, "Thank you, Tom. Believe me, I would willingly fight alone - but I am grateful not to be required to."

"One last mission together, eh?" Wyatt smiles, his voice a little choked.

Yes indeed.

* * *

Once more, we are seated in the Council Chamber doing all that we can to conceal our revulsion at the appalling stench of the King's rotting legs. To my mind, it seems that we have not settled the succession in law a minute too soon, as that sharp incisiveness that I failed even to recognise until Wyatt mentioned it has truly begun to falter - and quite precipitously, too; for it is most conspicuous now by its absence. The manner in which Henry looks upon us, each in turn, with narrowed eyes made all the more unnerving as they are already swollen almost to small slits by his puffed flesh, is deeply unsettling; as though he now sees all of us as traitors who wait for him to die like those foul eaters of carrion who wait over a dying corpse in anticipation of the feast to come.

It is Surrey's act that has caused this - I am sure of it. The attempt to seize control of Edward is bad enough - but it is not lost to us that he has chosen to quarter his arms with those of the Confessor. That he is perfectly entitled to do so means nothing. Henry views his doing so in a treasonous light; and thus he is guilty of treason. That the Howards have acted so - and at such a time as this - has driven the King into a truly dark and dangerous mood, and one that even Cromwell must navigate with the greatest of care. We are all in danger now - it could not be clearer from the manner in which we are each regarded in turn by a King who has lost his trust in us.

It is, for certain, that Surrey is guilty - for the King believes him to be so. The times when he might have tempered his anger in the face of Howard's obvious abilities are long gone. There is no presumption of innocence until proven otherwise - not quite the principle laid down by that last Plantagenet King.

"When is he to be tried?" Henry's voice is low - and I wonder if even giving him a positive answer shall lead to an explosion of temper.

"In two days' time, Majesty." Hertford advises, quietly, "He shall be tried before the Privy Council, and the Attorney General shall preside over matters."

Henry grunts something akin to an approval - though he has not asked whether there shall be a jury. I suspect he has already assumed there shall not. He would be right. Perhaps I should feel concerned at this - but, given that both Cromwell and I were not granted such a privilege when we were accused of treachery, that old spectre of spite raises its ugly head and quells my wish for better justice.

"He is a traitor, Gentlemen." Henry growls, unpleasantly, "Do not forget it."

His will could not be any more clear, it seems. God, what we must do to answer our calling.

The sombre mood travels with us to Suffolk's apartments as we assemble for the Queen's Council. With matters as they are, we have not admitted any additional members, for the secrets we carry are too precious to risk. Instead, we seat ourselves, and Queen Jane looks upon us each in turn with kind sympathy. She is loved by the people for that - and with good reason - and loved by those of us who have committed to serve as her Council.

"When is the trial to take place, my Lord Hertford?" she asks the same question as her husband.

"In two days' time, Majesty." He answers, as he did to the King.

"And there is no hope of acquittal?"

"None." He sighs, "The King demands that he is guilty, and must therefore be found so. While it shall relieve us of a difficult, arrogant man who despises us, it shall also rob us of a capable man and a brilliant soldier. I am not sure which would be the better service to the Realm - though, for myself, I must admit that I shall not be ungrateful to be free of his hate."

"So there is no manner in which we could make one last attempt." It is not a question.

"No, Majesty." Cromwell looks most unhappy, "Were it possible, I think he would spit in the face of any who tried - other, perhaps, than my Lord Suffolk. He demands to be Protector, and in sole charge of the Prince's future despite the provisions of the Succession Act. I cannot see any manner in which he would compromise. Not even the saving of his own life."

She looks at him, and frowns, "There is another matter that is concerning you, is there not, my Lord?"

He nods, "I fear that my age has begun to tell against me, Majesty. We hunted a ravener not a week ago, and I found myself too stiffened in my back to fight it. Had Richard not been at my side, I would not be alive to tell you. Thus I have failed in a most important duty - I have not sought a successor to enter the court in my place. I should have done it long ago, but I did not - so now there is no one to undertake my duties as a Silver Sword, for I can no longer be certain that I can defeat a demon."

"I require you for more than your ability to wield weapons, my Lord." The Queen reminds him, "If another is required, then that must be attended to - but not at the expense of my most able adviser."

"His Grace has also neglected to mention that, with Sir Thomas Wyatt back at court, who is also - I believe - armed with a silver blade, my Lord Cromwell has the assistance both of his Second and a fellow fighter who can aid him while this successor is appointed." Hertford adds.

"In which case, the matter is no matter." The Queen smiles, "For my former group of protectors is reunited."

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell admits, and - to my surprise - has the grace to go a little red.

* * *

Following the King's demand both for the conduct of a trial, and the verdict that he requires, all are assembling to carry out his will. As fellow Peers, Cromwell and I shall sit in judgement over Surrey, which - I have no doubt - shall cause him much rage. He sees us as upstarts - craven interlopers from the lower order that have no place in elevated circles such as his; but the time for such rigidity is past. He cannot see it - but then, other than that brief moment of clarity when he looked to Cromwell to be the guide for his prince into an uncertain future, neither can his Majesty. Perhaps one day, Kings shall be advised solely by men appointed on merit - but I suspect I shall not see it in my lifetime.

We sit, in a long row, along the far wall of the Court, and he faces us, his expression disdainful and proud. That is no surprise - he does, after all, outrank most of the Privy Council - but the charges against him are so severe that perhaps he feels he has no choice but to be brazen in our presence - either that or he does not recognise our jurisdiction over him thanks to his upbringing as a child of Kingly descent. That may be his wish, but I would wish myself anywhere but here. From Cromwell's expression, I think he feels much the same. We are not in the Court of the Star Chamber, as the King has already demanded that Surrey be convicted - and the Star Chamber does not have the power to try men who might be put to death. As a convicted traitor, that outcome is inevitable.

Thus, he is tried by the Attorney General - no longer Whorwood, who retired suddenly after his health broke down, instead a burly man of considerable talent by the name of Edward Griffin, and we sit in silence. Behind Surrey are ranks of people, for such trials are held in public. He is popular, as we are not, for the same reason that he is so assured of his superiority: high born, noble. None of us are ignorant of the hatred that is directed at those of us of lesser birth who wait for their hero to be judged.

As the evidence is presented, however, the mood begins to change. Not, of course, because those present are beginning to sympathise with us; but because it is clear that Surrey intended to remove the Queen from her son's presence. Regardless of how Surrey might be lauded, Queen Jane is loved by the people - and a threat to her is regarded with great disfavour. Untainted by the presence of a living predecessor, aloof from the religious strife between Lutheran and Catholic and mother of two sons, she is - in the eyes of the people - a gloried woman of almost saintly degree. In threatening her, Surrey has placed himself in a most dangerous position, that his intention to create himself Lord Protector - and quartering his arms with the Royal standard - had not.

He does not deny his actions - after all, not only has he been caught in the act, but he believes them to be right, and his expression as he glares at us is most unpleasant, "A Lion should be tended by lions, not by cattle, or wolves!"

He means us, I presume. Not that I am concerned - I have been called far worse. He certainly means Hertford, if he mentions wolves.

"Do you suggest that the Queen's Majesty is naught but a heifer?" Griffin demands, furiously.

"I suggest that the King's seed is the source of the Prince's Majesty - not the womb in which he was carried!"

The rumblings in the crowd are rather more hostile now; for he is suggesting that the Queen had no participation in the procreation of her children other than to be a means of bringing them to birth. Their beloved, gentle Jane reduced to nothing more than a brood mare. How convenient that they appear to have forgotten that she came to the King while he was married to another wife. Thank God that they do.

"And you consider yourself to be the Lord Protector to our sovereign Prince Edward?"

"Is there any other who would be suited to the task? Would you truly expect a Royal child to be in the care of an upstart Gentryman, his sister and a Putney brewer's son?"

Hertford does not move, nor does he speak - but I can see red patches upon his cheeks that visibly betray his rage at such an insult. On my other side, however, Cromwell's expression is as bland as it would be were he listening to a list of food prices in the markets of Cheapside and Billingsgate. With each word Surrey speaks, he is displaying his open snobbery for those who have achieved that which was handed to him freely at birth. And, again, he is insulting the Queen. Is he really that stupid? Is he under the influence of something that does not understand human thought? Surely not…

As the trial - or, perhaps, more accurately, quarrel - continues, I begin to appreciate that Surrey's words are indeed his own. He is an intelligent, well governed man; but his wont to be reckless, and his absolute belief in his innate superiority, are driving him to all but confess to attempting to force his will upon the succession. I think that there is also an element of desperation - that which drives the cornered dog to bite all the harder in order to drive the threat back from him. His upbringing has conditioned him to believe that he has the right to stand in the stead of a boy-king, and equally it has taught him to defy those who censure him for attempting to do so.

Even he must be growing aware of the changing atmosphere - people will accept brashness from a nobleman, as they expect it - but to threaten the very throne? No - that is something that no Englishman would countenance. They do not know that 'bluff King Hal' is a shadow of his former self. To them - at least to those in London - he is still their 'Harry the Great', and any threat to one or all of his children would be considered very badly; particularly as Surrey has made it very clear to all present that he is not acting with the sanction of the King.

By the end of the day, Griffin has had enough of his posturing, and we are directed to consider our verdict. What a pointless exercise…we already know the verdict: it was demanded of us before this trial even began.

Nonetheless, I feel ashamed as we sit in judgement, and the verdict is delivered. That Surrey _intended_ to do what he did - and all that we did was bring him to it more quickly - is immaterial. He threw his dice in the great game of politics and the Crown - and lost.

And now he shall die for it.

* * *

Wyatt joins us in Cromwell's apartments as we sit before the fire with hippocras that we do not drink, and comfits that we do not eat. None of us have the appetite.

"When is he to die?" Wyatt asks, sombrely.

"That, I do not yet know." Cromwell sighs, "For the King has demanded his death, but has not signed a warrant yet. Until that is done he must languish in the Tower and await an uncertain outcome. As I did - though I was most fortunate in that my sentence was quashed."

"And what of Norfolk? Is he also to be tried?"

"No, in his case, he has already assumed that he shall be - and acted first. He has declared himself guilty and thrown himself upon the King's mercy - a dubious hope at best, I fear. In his present mood, the King is not minded to grant mercy to any. Thus he, too, is held in the Tower."

"For God's sake, let us do what we can to bring the Prince towards the principle that the law must be an instrument of justice, and not the State." I mutter, miserably. Once, I would not have cared, for my purpose was to bring about the King's will, and find the means to do so - whether legitimate or not; but how many innocent men, and women, have given their lives for that purpose? No matter what I have done that is good, that which I have done that is not is still a stain upon my soul that I cannot remove.

"I think he shall be more amenable to such a prospect than his father." Wyatt speculates, "He has inherited the sharp intelligence, but not the impulsiveness, for he seems most influenced by his mother's calm spirit. I could not say the same for young Prince Hal, for he seems far more akin to his father in his manner."

"I agree." Cromwell nods, "From my dealings with him, it seems to me that his Highness is far more prepared to accept the need for merit over blood on his Council. That we must include the higher Lords is inevitable, and we are fortunate in that most of them are of suitable calibre to serve a King wisely and well - but the need for men of skill, regardless of birth, is undeniable. We must accept that the world is changing - the distance between those of means, and those of none, is narrowing. There are men of lower birth who have, as have I, prospered and accumulated wealth thanks to their wits and skills as businessmen. They possess no lands, but they have means - and expect to be represented in a manner that the very poorest do not - for they have been neglected to the point that they do not expect it."

"And even that must change." Wyatt adds, "If we ignore those at the very lowest positions in society, how long shall it be before they see others prospering, and demand their share? To claim that it is God's will only goes so far."

"If I can, then I shall introduce more legislation to expand the existing Poor Laws, Tom." Cromwell agrees, "I was fortunate to rise from a very lowly state - but even I was privileged to be born into a family that had sufficient funds to grant me a simple education before I departed England. The institutions to aid the very poorest of our citizens should be expanded, and we must learn to view those who have nothing as people who can make something of themselves, not lost causes."

"Only a man who came from poor stock could think so, Thomas." I smile at him, then, "Those of us from landed families would see such a plan as scandalous - and probably an assault upon our privileges."

Wyatt looks about to make one of his pithy comments that tends to result in the flinging of a napkin into his face, when there is a knock at the door, and James admits Jonathan - her senior Usher and the only member of her serving staff who knows the truth of us, "My Lord Cromwell, her Majesty has asked for you to attend her."

Frowning slightly in confusion, he nods, and sets his cup aside, "I shall see the two of you anon. Perhaps your collective mood is improved enough to attempt some comfits?"

Naturally, we are in a fever of curiosity over his summons to the Queen's side. We are obliged to wait but an hour - and when he returns, it is clear that something dreadful has happened.

"What is it, Thomas?" Wyatt asks, shocked at his expression, "Is it the King?"

He shakes his head, "No Tom - for that we must be grateful, but it is something that could still yet throw the entirety of our plans for the succession in to disarray."

I almost do not want him to continue - for I can guess what he is about to tell us; and I am right.

"Some three hours ago, his Grace the Duke of Suffolk passed away." Cromwell sits down, rather heavily.

We exchange worried glances - not only is his loss a dreadful blow to the Kingdom, and a cruel one for an ageing King to whom he was the best of friends; but it also leaves us with no neutral party to head the Regency Council. There is no Councillor who could possibly replace him - not one.

"How is the King?" I ask, a little nervously; a man in fear of his own death shall surely be deeply affected by the passing of one of his dearest friends.

"That, the Queen's Majesty could not say." Cromwell sighs, "Though I have no doubt that it shall wound his Majesty greatly - and there is no telling how he shall react. It may be that he shall withdraw from us, or become even deadlier in his tempers. That is something that we shall be obliged to discover in the coming days. I cannot even hope to predict it at this point in time."

I feel sick inside. Despite the evidence of my eyes, of our experiences in the Council Chamber, it could not be clearer that Henry is not long for this world; but such is his aura of royalty and permanence, that I have allowed myself to pretend that he shall remain at the head of the table forever, even in defiance of all that I have speculated and stated to the contrary. If I could not believe it possible that a King shall die, then the loss of a Lord so high is proof that the time for such foolishness is past. Suffolk is gone. How much longer shall we have his Majesty?

I am grateful that it is not my place to know.


	9. Nightfall

Chapter Nine

 _Nightfall_

Again, the Court is quiet and sombre. While Suffolk was not necessarily regarded well by all, only a fool would be anything other than sad at his passing, for he was loved by the King; and now he is gone.

It is no surprise that we have been tasked with finding the funds to pay for a tomb in the Chapel of St George at Windsor. His Majesty intends to be interred there, and he wishes his dearest friend to be with him in death as much as in life. The funeral, therefore, is to be at his expense.

Despite the occasions upon which we crossed words with one another prior to becoming allies, it is our intention to ensure that the funeral shall be fitting in all respects, and thus it shall inevitably be costly. So much so, in fact, that we cannot hope to find sufficient funds to cover it. Consequently, thanks to his wealth - owing to his business dealings and property work - Cromwell has quietly donated a very large portion of the monies that must be spent. I wish that I was equally able to contribute, but my own properties are less extensive than his, so mine is considerably less. Better that, though, than admitting to the King that his own funds are insufficient to offer even a pauper's funeral; so extensive are his debts.

Custom dictates that the King should not be present - hence the offer of a place for the Duke to rest. Those of us in the Council, however, are not restrained so, and thus we attend - clad in black - and formally escort one of our own to his final resting place. The tomb is set into the floor of the Chapel's south quire aisle, and shall be covered by a great granite slab as there is not sufficient space for a table tomb here. As is also customary, we accompanied the catafalque - carried on a great cart of black-painted oak with a canopy of black silk atop it - on foot, while a number of Suffolk's fellow Garter Knights followed carrying his sword, helm and arms. Despite his status, Cromwell was not among them, and would have declined even if he had been asked. The uproar _that_ would have caused would be most unseemly on a day of solemnity such as this.

The interment itself shall take place in private, and we are thus free to depart at the end of the requiem mass. Regardless of the upheavals in the Church in England, Henry has - at the last - remained very much a Catholic in outlook, and thus the service was as befits the Roman rite. I am sure I noticed a few glances in our direction as the priest intoned the words of the Latin Mass; but we, too mourn the man who lay in the coffin atop that catafalque, and thus the manner in which he was consigned to God mattered less to us than the fact that it was done.

Our horses are in the Windsor mews, but the lateness of the hour dictates that we remain at Windsor, as it is truly unsafe to travel back to Hampton Court at this time. Instead, we retire to guest quarters appropriate to our status, though the Prince has - to the surprise of everyone - invited the two of us to sup with him in private.

It feels most strange to be attending a supper hosted by a nine-year-old boy - but Edward's intelligence and maturity are quite remarkably beyond his years, and his Royal status overcomes his youth. Again, his tutor, Sir Richard Page, is present, so we shall not discuss matters pertaining to Cromwell's non-royal duties - but Edward is not blind to what is coming, and he seems keen to have at least a simple understanding of the operations of Government.

Fortunately this does not last long, and by the time the dishes are being cleared and we are served comfits and fruits with hippocras, matters have instead turned to falconry - particularly Lancelot. Cromwell is well acquainted with the sport, and the two discuss how Edward shall work with and fly his fine Gyr. While I am less expert, I am also able to participate - which is quite unusual for me, I fear - and our conversation as the evening draws to a close are of matters entirely unrelated to governing the Kingdom - or the fact that his father must die before he can do so.

The last thing that he does, as we leave, is to press a small letter into Cromwell's hands while Sir Richard is not looking. It is, of course, for his mother - but I have no doubt that his tutors oversee all of his communications, and his wish to send a simple missive that is entirely private is both endearing, and sad. It is hard to be a prince.

When we depart back to Hampton Court, the next morning, the sun is bright, but the air is very crisp, and we are both well swathed in wools and furs as the horses plod away from Windsor. Somehow, I fear that we shall not return there except for one purpose - and I prefer not to think about it.

"Is that a letter for the Queen, Thomas?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"It is. I shall pass it to Jonathan to hand to her when we are back. I suspect that our move to Placentia shall take place very shortly, for Advent has begun - and if we do not move soon, we shall be obliged to remain here for Christmastide." He pauses, "I think his Majesty would prefer to be in residence at his favourite palace at the last. While I am sure he has time yet - I suspect he shall not see another Christmas."

"I should prefer it if he did. For the boy's sake." I admit, "Despite our preparations, he is still so young."

"Indeed - but I fear that God shall place that burden upon him rather sooner than all of us would wish, Richie. He has the Queen at his side, and we shall grant him the best of our service to ensure he shall rule well. It is the best we can give him, and the best we can give his father. The Tudor legacy should continue to grow and prosper. The worst we could face is another civil war over the succession."

As we continue our journey, broken only by a pause for some dinner in a wayside inn whose food is not too offensive, we attempt as best we can to shut out the awful reality of what lies ahead. Had Edward been a man grown, we would not be facing a fight to secure his future - but he is a boy, and that uncertain future shall test all of us to the limit, I think - though I fervently hope not. Now that Surrey and Norfolk are gone, there is no faction strong enough to challenge Hertford, so I suppose Dudley shall either throw in his lot with us - which is to be hoped for - or bide his time, which is not.

Wyatt has departed to visit his friend in Dorset by the time we return, but the presence of a note in Cromwell's quarters brings us the news that we have been expecting. The Court is to move to Placentia, and as quickly as possible to be there in time for the holiday. While we have not supped together, I have joined him to play cards awhile, and he is already planning even as I deal out the hands.

"Has not Wriothesley already begun the organisation of the offices, Thomas?" I ask, as I sort my cards.

"Naturally. The Clerks were busy sorting papers into coffers for Whitehall, and coffers for Placentia even as I arrived in the offices. He knows what must come with us, and what can be archived. I am not sure why I even bothered to visit him." Cromwell smiles as he does likewise, "Hmm. I think I have a most indifferent hand. Are you sure you shuffled the cards properly?"

I smirk at this, for card games are one of the few pastimes in which I excel over Cromwell. It is rare for us to spend an evening so engaged, for we would normally be hunting - but we have had a long ride today, and there is no sense of ichor that he has detected, so instead we entertain ourselves with games.

By the end of the evening, I have gathered a nice collection of coins, and retire to bed in a cheerful frame of mind. The morning, on the other hand, brings another shock - as though we have not had enough of those.

The offices are largely cleared of papers now, and those coffers to go to Whitehall have already been dispatched. John is packing up my possessions, and I am almost keen to depart, until a Steward arrives and asks me to attend the Privy Chamber. It seems that the Council have been summoned by the King.

I am not the last to arrive, thank God, but it is immediately clear that something is wrong - for we are all gathered together, but at the fore is the Queen, holding Prince Hal's hand, while Hertford stands beside her to the right, and Cromwell to the left. She is very pale, though I suspect she knows no more than we do.

"I thank you all for coming into my presence so unexpectedly, my Lords." The King advises, "You shall shortly be travelling to Placentia to celebrate Christmastide - but I shall not be travelling with you. I shall, instead, travel to Whitehall to spend the season there."

He pauses at the sounds of consternation amongst the gathered Councillors. He must think that he is dying - why else would he abandon the Court? God help us…

"The Act of Succession is in place. My son Edward shall rule England - but until he is grown enough to do so, the rule of the Kingdom shall be undertaken by her Majesty, Queen Jane, as Regent. Supported by a Regency Council led by my Lord of Hertford. Should he falter without issue, then my son Henry shall rule, and then the Lady Elizabeth - as decreed in Law. I expect you all to abide by both my will, and by that Law."

The Queen is staring at him, her dismay etched upon her face in visible anguish, "My Lord - I beg you…"

"No, sweet Jane; I must ask this of you, as I ask it of my Council. The time has come for me to make my peace with God, and to prepare for my end. You shall go forth from this place, and celebrate Christmastide in an atmosphere that does not reek of approaching death, and lay the foundations for our son's rule."

Rather than protest further, she curtseys deeply, "As you wish it, your Majesty." There is, despite her acquiescence, no hiding her tears in her voice.

"My Lord Cromwell," Henry turns to him, "I must ask you to keep watch over the government of my Kingdom. For all that I have done to you - every slap, every cuff, I ask your forgiveness now - for I have never granted you the true gratitude that you deserve for all that you have given to me in years of service and loyalty. I also ask your forgiveness for placing cruel burdens upon you - obliging you to act against your conscience in matters of service to me. You are, and have always been, the most faithful servant I have ever had."

Cromwell bows deeply, "Majesty, I am but a base-born man who has willingly served and loved my King. If you ask my forgiveness, then I grant it - though I am not worthy of such consideration. I give you my solemn promise that I shall continue to serve your son as I have served you. Honestly, and faithfully."

This time, there is silence. If no one was anticipating the King's announcement that he was leaving us to go into seclusion at Whitehall, then they _certainly_ would not have expected that. It seems that, at the last, Henry knows who is most to be trusted.

We are quietly dismissed then, to allow the Queen and her youngest son their last opportunity to share some private time with the King, as we make our way back to the offices.

"He knows, doesn't he?" I mumble.

Cromwell says nothing, but nods. It is as I turn that I realise why he has not spoken: his eyes are full of tears.

* * *

The decorations of the hall are spectacular; swags of silver and gold tinsel, green boughs of fir and pine that fragrance the air, and a multitude of twinkling candles. But, no matter how bright the decorations, it cannot compensate for the darkness that persists, for the brightest star is not here.

We are in a most strange position - for while the King is not dead, he is not at Court either, and thus we are all now held in an endless pattern of waiting and wondering. Queen Jane now presides over us - but she is not yet Regent, for the King lives, and is not incapacitated. Thus he still rules. Besides, the Prince Edward is at Windsor, and we are not even sure that he knows yet what has happened. In some ways, I hope that he does not, for then he shall enjoy one last Christmastide where all is as it has always been for him. Bad news can wait until the year has turned.

The Christmastide mass this morning was festive, but subdued. Now the Queen is seated at the head of the hall, in the chair she would habitually occupy alongside her King, though now she sits alongside an empty chair. Hertford is at her side, while Prince Hal sits alongside him. Perhaps it is thanks to his youth - for the child seems utterly unaffected by the mood of the adults around him, and he chatters to Hertford happily as a group of jugglers perform in the middle of the hall.

Perhaps people expected Cromwell to be seated at the high table - thanks to the praise that the King heaped upon him before we left Hampton. He is, however, seated at one of the tables reserved for the higher-ranked lords, alongside me, and I know from his expression that he has no wish to be anywhere else. Instead, he is focused upon the jugglers, watching as they deftly throw and catch all manner of objects. For tonight, matters of State can be ignored, and he can avoid the jealous scowls of those who are disgruntled at his continued elevation. After all, how many men at Court can say that the King of England sought their forgiveness?

Fortunately, thanks to the liberal application of wine, the mood of the gathering begins to improve as the evening progresses. Before long, people are dancing, and there is a hum of conversation. Hal has retired to bed - much to his disgust - but the Queen and her brother remain, and she watches all with deliberate interest. When the time comes, she shall rule England until her son is old enough to do so for himself - but she has never been taught to rule, and thus must learn quickly. How I sympathise with that - for I, too, was granted a heavy burden before I knew its weight - and knew not how to carry it until it was already upon my shoulders.

The Dudley brothers are all participating in the dance; though, I note, Ambrose has been most careful to find another partner, for the giddy Mistress Howard - who has escaped the opprobrium of her relatives - appears quite interested in him. God above, how many amours has she accumulated now? I dread to think - though the Queen has recently taken steps to curb her less decorous behaviour, and she is rarely allowed out of her mistress's presence without a chaperone. She must hate that.

We have not been at Placentia long enough to have attracted a ravener - even assuming there were one nearby to notice - but still Cromwell and I take a turn around the Gardens. There is no snow tonight, but the air is still sharp with frost, and I am grateful for the fresh air, as I have eaten rather too much again.

"Her Majesty has convened a meeting of her Council on the morrow, Richie." Cromwell advises, as we walk, "We need to begin considering who shall be on the Regency Council, even if they are not part of our Inner Circle."

"That is no surprise." I admit, "If even His Majesty has accepted that he is soon to die, then we cannot delay any longer, can we?"

"Indeed no. It shall not be an easy task, however, for while all talent is welcome, there are still those who shall expect to be appointed on the basis of who they are, rather than what they can offer. _That_ is where it shall be difficult. I would not wish for someone of no appreciable skill to sit upon this council, regardless of which Castle they were born in."

"We shall need men of experience as much as talent, Thomas. Her Majesty is no more prepared to be a Regent than I was to be a Second. She must learn quickly, and learn as she works."

"I am sure she shall do so - for she is not lacking in intelligence, only in education. She also has the most vital skill a ruler can possess - knowing when to seek aid from those about her who know more than she does. Pride is not merely a mortal sin, but it is a deadly one for more than the one who has it."

"I just wish we still had Suffolk. It shall be far harder to win acceptance from a Council that thinks that they are serving a faction, not a Queen." I admit.

"Alas, we do not." Cromwell agrees, sadly, "So we shall have to do what we can. I have no doubt that we shall never win their respect, so we must accept that they shall fight us at every step, and prepare accordingly." He sighs, "I think we have both eaten far too well to consider supper tonight, but I would welcome your company for a cup of hippocras."

"Then you shall have it." I smile, "I am sure I can relieve you of more coins if you wish to attempt to best me at cards again."

Our meeting with the Queen is in her Privy Chamber, and we are all most intent upon ensuring that the Regency council is agreed upon, ready to be appointed as soon as possible after we have broken our staffs upon Henry's death to signify the end of our service to him. I am sure mine is lurking somewhere - but I have already set John to the task of retrieving it, as I use it so rarely.

With the loss of Suffolk, Paget has, to a considerable degree, become our neutral party, and thus he has taken on the task of listing suitable names for the Prince's new Council. Hertford shall now lead it - that is one certainty, while Cromwell and I shall continue to provide the administrative services that we have operated since our return to favour after the Campofregoso debacle. Wriothesley shall continue as King's Secretary - though he does not know it yet - but now we must choose a careful balance of men from both sides of the factional divide.

"Whether we wish it or not, Northumberland is essential." Hertford sighs, "He is ambitious, and greedy - but he is also highly capable, and we cannot risk setting him aside, for I have no doubt he would plot against us if we did."

"What of Arundel?" I ask, "He has no specific allegiances, and he is not entirely lacking in political acumen. In some ways, his caution shall balance out Northumberland's impetuosity."

"Not to mention his bellicosity." Hertford snorts, "He has been agitating to go to war now for years - and it has been an endless effort to dissuade his Majesty from listening."

"Definitely Shrewsbury." Cromwell adds, "He is strong-willed, yes; and proud with it - but he has a stronger loyalty to the Crown than Surrey had. While he was thick as thieves with Norfolk, he was also less close-minded to the importance of talent at the Council table."

"Sussex." Paget refers to his list, "He is not particularly bright, but he is well connected and has no link to the Howard clan."

And so it goes on. We do not want a large council, for that serves to cause only more strife as there are more opportunities to form factions and plots - but again we equally wish to avoid an overly small one, for the same reason. Whatever we do, someone will object to it, so the best we can do is formulate a Council that shall displease the fewest people possible.

By the time we return to our offices, we have - more or less - completed our task. Fourteen men shall sit at the Council Table, ourselves included, and the balance of ability and blood, against factional loyalties, is as careful as it can be. As I seat myself at my desk, I find before me a large folio of papers that reports ongoing works at the last of Henry's great Palaces - one that he has not yet had the opportunity to fully occupy thanks to the length of time that it has been under construction. They call it 'Nonsuch', for there are none such as this - but now I wonder if he shall ever see it. I suppose it shall be come a residence for his son, instead.

As we have not yet reached Twelfth Night, there is little work for me to do - the clerks are all away with their families, or spending their holiday times with their friends in the lesser halls at Placentia. Thus I set the folio into a coffer, and head out in search of diversion. At one time, I would have been sleeping, for we would devote the nights to hunting, and the days to resting - but now there are no raveners to hunt, no revenants to fear - and I am finding myself to be rather bored. I wonder if Cromwell shall consent to ride out for a while - we have not sparred in some weeks, and I am worried that I shall become too slow to be of use to him if we do have to hunt again.

And then I am felled again by that same, dreadful sense of cold terror - the conviction that something is near, watching me and hating me to such a degree that it would visit the cruellest of tortures upon me. I stagger into the wall, and drop to the ground, breathing fast; for I can see nothing around me, but I can feel it - a ghastly, horrible hatred that is utterly inhuman in its intensity. What is it? What is hunting me? Am I imagining this? Oh God - is something trying to possess me?

"Oh God! Father! Help me, I beg you!" The words tear, almost unbidden, from my lips as I reach out to the only One that I am sure can counter this horror, for again it is trying to harm me, for I can see all things - I have shadowsight…

Remarkably, the repetition of that word _shadowsight_ seems to reach into my panic and blot it out. As quickly as it struck me, the terror is gone, and I find that I am once more huddled upon the ground - and grateful that no one has passed, or seen me.

It has been some weeks since I was last struck so, and I had all but forgotten it in the swirling storm of events that are overtaking us. There is, however, nothing I can do here. The weather has broken, and there are no wherries to hire to get me back to the Tower Wharves. But - as soon as I am able - I shall have to return to the Library to find out what all of this means.

* * *

Cromwell looks rather worried as I relate this latest episode to him, "I am not sure that you should wait until we return to Whitehall, Richie - you have the seniority to require a barge, I should do so as soon as you may."

"Perhaps - but the weather is so fierce at present that I am not sure even one of the largest of the Royal Barges would put out. If I cannot return to Whitehall, then I may opt instead to ask Wolsey for his advice. He has not ventured to provide it - but it may be that he can question Cassandra again, and she can aid me."

His expression remains doubtful, but then he looks up at the sound of a knock upon his office door, and he calls in a Steward who hands him a rather battered looking letter. As he seats himself again, he frowns, "I do not recognise this seal."

I wait as he breaks the unfamiliar seal and opens the letter to read it. To my dismay, he sinks back in his seat and looks stricken, and now it is I who am worried, "What is it, Thomas?"

Rather than respond, he instead holds out the letter to me, and I take it.

 _To my Lord Cromwell,_

 _I write to you in some distress to inform you that, on the night of St Stephen's Eve, our good friend, Mr Thomas Wyatt gave up his soul to God. He had taken ill upon his journey to my house at Clifton Maubank, and the fever would not leave him despite the best ministrations of our most trusted physician._

 _Before his sad passing, he asked me to ensure that you were advised, and to direct you to execute his will, which he deposited at a certain house of your acquaintance that he would not name. Madame Dawson knows of its whereabouts._

 _I beg your forgiveness for being obliged to send you such sad tidings at this most celebrated time of year. I have undertaken to ensure that his mortal remains shall be consigned to the ground in the former Abbey of Sherborne, which the people of the parish have chosen to become their Church._

 _Yours._

 _John Horsey, Kt._

I stare at the paper, refusing to believe the words upon it to be true - Wyatt? Our Tom? God no - he was too alive…too vital…too…

And then I collapse into tears. After all that we have endured - the King's seclusion, Suffolk's death, so much to fear, and so much to do…and Tom is gone…Tom Wyatt, our 'Third' is dead…

I feel a hand upon my arm, and I look up to see that Cromwell is little better than I. While he does not sob, as I do, he too sheds tears. We cannot even get to Sherborne…it is not possible to leave Court at such a time as this.

"Come, Richie," Cromwell says, mopping at his eyes with a kerchief, if we cannot travel to Sherborne, then we shall instead travel to the Chapel to pray for his soul."

Fumbling for my own kerchief, I follow his example and do what I can to look less distraught. It is embarrassing to be so emotional, perhaps; but we shared such adventures, and danger, that his bond of friendship to us was as strong as ours to each other, and it seems almost impossible to accept that we shall not see him again.

After an hour's reflection in the Chapel Royal, I find my frame of mind little improved, and I am grateful now that there is no work awaiting me, for I am in no mood to be wrestling with papers and problems. Word of Wyatt's passing seems to have spread, but no one speaks to me, or to Cromwell, about his loss. It is, I fear, one of the less pleasant sides of our unpopularity.

Queen Jane, on the other hand, is far kinder, and I am grateful for the small missive she sends me to offer her condolences for our loss. As we have no meeting of the Queen's Council before the year passes, she has no opportunity so do so in person. Thus we repair to the Hall to see out the old year, and ring in the new; and I have no wish to be present amongst such jollity when my own mood is so poor.

As the great Palace clock strikes midnight, I am outside again, watching the rough waves of the river as they slap up against the walls of the river-walk. For a moment, the sense of helplessness in the face of so much change seems overwhelming, and I am almost tempted to let myself fall into the cold embrace of the waters and avoid having to deal with a new year that brings only worry and uncertainty. I would not, of course; for suicide is a mortal sin, and I am not willing to leave this life just yet - but now I begin to appreciate the reasoning behind that decision when others make it.

I am not surprised when Cromwell emerges from the shadows to join me, "A sad note upon which to end the year, Richie."

"Very much so." I turn to him, "I suppose I should wish you a happy new year, but I am afraid that it might not be."

"Nor I." He agrees, "I am almost afraid of what is to come. The Court has never celebrated in the absence of its King - and I fear that he shall never come amongst us again."

"Then we shall hold the Kingdom for him, shall we not?" I declare, "And if not for him, then for his heir. He asked it of us, and so we shall do so - for the Mission is all."

He smiles then, a slightly skewed smile, "I thought that was my motto."

* * *

We move into January in a whirl of snow and strong winds that - once again - keep us firmly trapped in the Palace. There is a dreadful air of foreboding around us now, for none have seen the King at any time since he withdrew from the Court, nor have we heard any news of his wellbeing - or not.

A half-frozen messenger came through a few days ago with a long letter for the Queen from her son, who has travelled up to Hertford Castle, while Windsor is sweetened. Similarly, for they are in regular correspondence, Edward reports that Elizabeth has also departed from Hatfield and is currently at Enfield. He seems not to be aware that his father has gone into seclusion - and I am not sure whether we are relieved or perturbed by this fact.

The bitter weather has certainly kept anything of demonic bent firmly away - and still we are not obliged to hunt. Nonetheless, at every opportunity, Cromwell and I continue to practice swordplay when we can, though I am even more aware now of how stiff he is becoming. I think he continues to do so more for my benefit than for his. It also, however, has the benefit of passing the time, for even the work that we do seems to have fallen into abeyance as we wait for what we all now know is the inevitable moment when the King leaves us, and we must start anew.

Wriothesley is still presiding over the offices as though he expects work to be done, but none of the clerks seem to have much interest in their tasks. I think we are all aware of that dreadful tale of Cicero's about the sword that hovered over the head of Damocles, held by a horse's hair. It seems now to hover over us. Even our meetings with the Queen make little progress, for we have done all that we can, and now must abide in silence until the time comes for her to step forth as Regent for her son.

By the second week of the month, the weather has become so dreadful that no boats can put out at all, for the river has begun to freeze, thought it is too treacherous as yet to ride upon. Should we be obliged to travel, then it shall have to be overland on horseback, something that I view with a great deal of distaste. The journey is long enough at the best of times - to have to break through thick snow is too unpleasant to contemplate. And so, I spend my days brooding pointlessly over papers whose progress is entirely dependent upon whether or not the King lives, and my evenings in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in furs and playing cards with Cromwell while I find myself grieving for Wyatt, for he can never return to share those evenings.

The worst for all of us is the continued lack of news from Whitehall. No messengers have come, and not even rumours seem to have emerged from those distant halls. The Spies have heard nothing, other than that things remain as they are. And so we wait. And wait. Though I find I am not sure that I want that situation to change, as any news we hear is so likely to be bad.

It is as I am rising on a dreadfully cold morning that John answers the door of my quarters, and then comes hurrying through to assist me into my doublet, "James is at the door, my Lord; he has a message from the Lord Chancellor."

My breakfast awaits me in the main chamber, but I ignore the eggs, bread and butter - and hurry to find James still waiting, "Forgive me, my Lord, but his Grace has asked that you be ready to ride to Whitehall. The King has requested your presence."

Abandoning all thoughts of victuals, I find that John has already begun burrowing through my closets to find warmer clothes that are best suited for riding. The river is covered in great sheets of ice, but they are not thick enough to take the weight of a horse, so we shall have no choice but to ride across country. Thus I make my way to the mews in much thicker clothing, my heavy riding boots, a furred cloak and a woollen coif under my bonnet in a desperate attempt to keep my ears at least slightly warm.

I am, however, surprised to find only Cromwell and Hertford present, "Where are Bedford, Paulet and Baker?" They are, after all the other three holders of the five great offices of England.

"They are not summoned, Richie," Cromwell advises, "it seems that his Majesty has only summoned you and I. Before you ask," He continues, as he can see that I am about to frame a question, "I do not know why that should be. We shall discover his reasons when we get there. Her Majesty has ordered that we be accompanied by a large squadron of guards, partly for protection from assault, partly to keep us safe by breaking paths for us in the midst of these vile winter snows."

Even as I mount, I am suddenly horribly fearful. I do not think that we are being summoned to face arrest - far from it. Instead, we are being summoned because the King is dying, and must impart some last instructions to us before he does so. Why else would Hertford also be required?

It is only then that I note that Cromwell has hung his swords from his saddle, and I realise that it has not occurred to me to arm myself in in similar fashion, so I hide myself from the crowding grooms and summon the Damask Blade to my hand, taking care to ensure that it is concealed beneath my voluminous cloak before I re-emerge. Either Cromwell fears attack, or he is going to reveal his true purpose to Henry before he dies. I am not sure which is most likely.

Our journey shall take us west, crossing the small Ravensburne river, and out towards the River Peck, at which point we shall turn north towards the City to cross the Thames at London Bridge. Given the depth of the snow, the Captain of our escort does not expect us to reach London before the City Gates are locked, and he has an inn in mind to which we shall travel, where we shall spend the night.

The ride is truly ghastly: miserable cold, large clods of snow dislodged from trees as we pass beneath them to strike us and cover us with white, icy powder. Most paths are unbroken, and thus three of the guards travel ahead as a vanguard to clear a route for us. Indeed, so slow is our progress that darkness is already beginning to fall as we reach the promised tavern, and all of us are chilled to the bone.

The Hostelry is of poor aspect, but the fire is large, a haunch of mutton is roasting on a spit, and the pottage is as fresh as the bread. The tavern keeper does not know who we are - thinking us to be important officials, but not aware of _how_ important we are. Thus we do not refer to one another in a manner that shall draw attention to ourselves, instead concentrating upon warming ourselves by sitting as close to the fire as we can stand, and imbibing mulled ale that is wonderfully warming after the horrid chill of the ride.

We are back in the saddle again the following day as soon as the light is sufficient to see our way, and we continue at that same, dreadfully slow pace; though as we approach the outer walls of Southwark, the roads are more trodden and our progress is better. By the time our horses finally clatter through to the mews at Whitehall, the weather is closing in again, and we are all grateful to be safely indoors as the world is lost once more in swirling snow.

As our existence is so peripatetic, I have long since taken to keeping some of my possessions in storage at Whitehall, for it is the centre of English Government these days. Cromwell and I are, therefore, at least prepared to change into dry clothes. Hertford is less fortunate, and is obliged to send out to his London residence for something dry to wear. Despite our readiness, however, we have not received an invitation to enter his Majesty's immediate presence, and so we must - again - wait. So much waiting…

I pass a restless night in my habitual quarters, served by one of the Stewards rather than my faithful John, and the following day is no better. Consequently, both Hertford and I spend the time in Cromwell's apartments, as we sit and wait for the King to send for us. Our collective mood is morose, for we are not blind to what is coming - the King is waiting to die, and will see us in his own time.

"If we are set to wait, Richie," Cromwell says, quietly, "I think perhaps we should make one last effort to make our peace with Henry Howard. His life now depends upon the life of the King; and, should his Majesty be called to God first, the sentence of death shall fall."

"Is it worth doing so?" I ask, wondering whether it is a vain hope, or a sense of deep remorse that our plans caused this decision, "He did not at any time show an intention to do so with us."

"Perhaps he shall view it as a guilty conscience upon my part – and in doing so, he should be correct – but nonetheless, I cannot leave things as they are. Should the axe not fall, then we shall have another opportunity to welcome him to the Council table."

"And if it does?"

"That is in God's hands now."

We cannot make the journey by wherry, and the ice is still not to be trusted. Thus we make our way to the Tower by road, though I am still not convinced that we shall achieve anything other than more angry invective from the imprisoned former Earl. It is a slow trek upon treacherously icy roads, and the length of time does little to diminish my misgivings.

Despite the loss of his status, Surrey is not billeted in a cell, though he has not been granted an apartment in the Queen's House. Instead, he is in some well appointed quarters in one of the inner towers, the Wakefield, I think, and is absorbed in a book when we are admitted.

"My Lord of Essex." he says, not looking up.

"Sir." Cromwell answers, quietly.

"Gloating is most unbecoming."

"I am in agreement with you, and thus I intend not to do so."

At last, he raises his head, "Then why have you come? I await my appointment with the headsman; so what more is there that you would want from me?"

Cromwell's answer startles him – as it startles me, "I came to offer you my contrition for my act against you."

Howard snorts, "And to seek my forgiveness?"

"I can offer only the former; the latter is not a right to which I am entitled. It may be that, in laying the trap that I did, I induced you to act as you did – and for that, I am truly sorry."

"Then why did you do so?"

It is a good question to ask – and not one that can easily be answered. Seeing that Cromwell is considering his answer, Howard does not demand he hurry, but instead invites us to be seated.

"Before I tell you my reasons for acting against you, my Lord," Cromwell begins, "I must ask you – was it truly your intention to seek to gain control of his Highness Prince Edward? If you are truly honest with me, then I swear to you that I shall grant you the same courtesy in return."

If I thought that Howard would throw such an offer back in Cromwell's face, it seems that I am wrong; for he sits awhile, raises his eyes to the ceiling, then lowers them again, "Yes." He admits.

"In order to – as you saw it – protect him from the designs of the low-born?"

He nods, "Is that not _your_ intention, my Lord?"

"It is not."

Howard snorts again, with disbelief.

"I swore to you that I would be honest with you, my Lord. Thus I am. My sole purpose and intention is to secure the safety of the realm. To that end, I have acted only to bring together a council of men who shall serve the Prince, and his mother – who shall be regent. All that has been set down in law is entirely in concordance with my design. I shall not hold any power over his Highness – nor would I wish for it."

"And you, my Lord?" Howard turns to me, for he knows the reputation that I have spent such time maintaining.

"I swear to you, that my intentions are the same as my Lord Cromwell's." I tell him, "Our only wish was that you would stand with us – but there was never any suggestion that you would."

"In that, you would have been right." he says, after a long pause, "I have had many long days, and longer nights, to consider my choices – for I am shortly to meet my maker, and thus wish to clear my accounts. The trap you laid before me merely looked to me to be a fortuitous turn of events – for it induced me to believe that which I already suspected."

"Then I shall tell you all, my Lord." Cromwell advises, causing me to look at him in startled surprise, "My motives to act as I do are steeped in a way of life that is hidden to all but a few..."

And thus he commences to tell the fallen Earl the tale of his beginnings. For the first time, I do not sit back and enjoy the incredulity on Howard's face, for even now I cannot bring myself to trust that he would believe us or protect the secret should he survive the reign.

I am relieved, however, to find that Howard does not scoff, or disbelieve the tale – instead nodding, "It seems then that your motives were more noble than mine."

"I can make no promises, my Lord." Cromwell says, quietly, "For I cannot change the mind of the King – but should he change his mind himself, then I would be in the greatest hope that you might set aside the wish to supplant those who are no threat to the realm, and instead stand with us to bring his Highness to his inheritance?"

"He shall not change his mind." Howard smiles at Cromwell, "You know that as well as I. In attempting to seize the Prince, I killed his love. That I acted too soon is perhaps a blessing, though not for me, I fear."

"I am truly sorry." Cromwell sighs, "I assure you that, had we had any other choice, we would not have done as we did."

"Then know that I forgive you for your act – for my time in solitude has shown me that it did not inspire me to do what I did, merely encouraged me to act more quickly than I had intended. I saw men of low birth as an aberration – a scourge to be cut out and eradicated like rotting flesh around a wound. My pride led me to this – your act merely hastened it." He looks up, then smiles, "I know that his Majesty shall never think of me again, nor welcome word of me. Thus I ask you instead to speak to the Prince on my behalf, my Lord Cromwell. Advise him of my contrition."

"Willingly, my Lord."

"Then I go to my death with my accounts settled." He says, with a calmness that I know I could not feel in his place. Whatever his faults, he is most certainly no coward.

"He is a brave man." I say, as we emerge back into the bustle of London, "I think I would have clung to the hope of mercy even to the last – and wept in despair for the lack of it."

"He is – at heart – an intelligent man, Richie," Cromwell admits, "In some ways I think his behaviour when we put him upon trial was more in the nature of a man cornered and driven to strike out at those who had entrapped him. His life is in the hands of God now, for if the King lives beyond the day set for his execution, he shall die."

There is little else to be said, and we ride back to Whitehall in silence to continue our awful death watch.

* * *

Finally, after nearly four days, the King's Groom of the Stool, Sir Anthony Denny, arrives as we are seated before the fire in Cromwell's main chamber. His position, while at times singularly unpleasant, is compensated for by the sheer degree of influence that he has with the King. It is, despite appearances, probably the most coveted position at Court for those who do not hold the offices that we have been granted; though he has always kept his business surprisingly private, and has never interfered with our work. Indeed, so discreet is his presence that he frequently seems not to be present at all - but all know that, if they are not one of the Privy Council, then he is their best hope of gaining a hearing from his Majesty.

He looks upon us all with a rather odd expression; not quite resentment, but not quite not. For the last few weeks, he has been the centre of the King's world, and has almost certainly prospered as a result of such access to his Monarch. Now we have come, and he must stand aside. What else is there? Grief? I think so - for he seems most sad. Our presence signals one thing, and one alone - that the King wishes to settle any outstanding affairs, and is waiting for God to call him home.

Naturally, no King is permitted to die alone or in private - and thus his most prominent Ministers shall be with him during his last hours, but it seems that that time is not yet come, "His Majesty has asked to see the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal in private."

He does not like that - it is obvious that he does not. For others to have access to the King without his presence and influence is worrisome to him; does he think that we shall rob him of it? Perhaps we might - though if so, it shall not be our intention.

It is only as we approach the Privy Chamber that we are assailed by the dreadful reek of the King's rotten legs once more. I had quite forgotten that ghastly stench while we were at Placentia, but even now, I find its presence causes me to grow tense and nervous. I had equally forgotten how much that knowledge of the King's presence, and likely ill temper, has the power to unnerve me.

He is sitting in a large chair, close to a roaring fire; and seems, at first glance, to be sleeping. A steward stands nearby, and quietly steps forth to rouse the silent figure. Gradually, Henry's head rises and he turns his half-closed, puffy eyes towards us, "Anthony, Edmund; leave us." God, his voice is barely audible.

Neither man demurs, and the pair quietly withdraw, leaving Cromwell and I alone with the King. As he did not see our arrival, we bow together with rather greater deference than even Henry expects from us. It is clear that he is dying, and somehow, that additional respect seems appropriate.

"Gentlemen." He says, eventually, "I thank you for coming."

"We are ever at your command, Majesty." Cromwell advises, solemnly.

"Aye; that you are." He looks at us both rather more piercingly, "In more ways than merely political, I think."

"Majesty?"

"The truth, my Lord Chancellor. We are both old men, and I am soon to depart and stand before a higher throne than mine. I might be a sad old fool who sees danger where there is none, or dread where there is danger - but I am not entirely blind. You have a secret from me, Cromwell. What is it?"

As he did when we last faced the King alone, Cromwell sinks to his knees, though rather more awkwardly than he once did, "Majesty, the secret I have from you is one that I would gladly share in the last of our years on this Earth. As you say, we are both old men - I older than you - and the time for secrets is past. I promise you, with every last crumb of truth in my soul, that all that I have done since the first day that I entered your service, has been for you, and for England. My secret is a long tale - and one that I shall gladly tell you."

"Then sit, you old fool." Henry rasps, faintly, "I do not demand confession from you as though I were a priest." He is smiling as he speaks, thank God.

As Cromwell rises, I fetch across two chairs, and we seat ourselves beside the fire as Cromwell once again relates that long story of the boy who fled to the Continent in search of adventure, and the man who returned with a mission to fulfil. At no time does the King interrupt, or lose interest, though his eyes flick briefly in my direction when Cromwell brings my role into his narrative.

At length, he is done, and Henry eyes him with a rather odd expression - almost wistful, "To think I was nearly induced to end your life. And in doing so I could have brought all of England to ruin."

He believes us? God - I would not have expected that.

"But that did not happen, Majesty. The battle that was to be fought came to me, thanks to the true loyalty of my Second, the love of your Queen and the forgiveness of one of your greatest friends. Many - both living and passed - stood together to protect England in your name, Majesty. It has been a privilege and an honour to serve you both as your Lord Chancellor, and as the English Silver Sword. Even had I been obliged to lay my head upon the block, I would have done so gladly, and without regret - for I had done what I had set out to do."

"Jane knew?" He asks, quietly.

"She saved my life, Majesty - and I returned the favour when she lay dying in childbed. Her loyalty and love for you made her one of the saviours of this Kingdom, and she shall continue to serve even as we stand with your son to bring him to his true inheritance."

Henry nods, "I was blessed to find her and make her my wife; for she has saved my Kingdom through the bearing of two sons, and - it seems - through her association with this hidden Order."

Why does he not ask us to explain why we kept this great secret from him? He has feared secrets all this time - and yet he has now been alerted to the greatest of them all; but does not seem discomfited by it.

"Was I alone in my ignorance?" he asks, eventually.

"No, Majesty. The Kings of Europe know nothing of the Order, or the men with silver blades who serve them. You, and the Queen, are alone in bearing that knowledge." I note that Cromwell opts not to mention that all of Henry's children - with the exception of Hal - also bear it.

"Ensure that Edward knows, Tom. He must know - for he must not be turned against you."

"I shall see to it, Majesty."

"Despite them all, Tom; despite the high-born blood that surrounds me, it is the lowest-born of my Courtiers who has served me most faithfully. I want you here, you and your Second. I trust no one else."

"Thank you, Majesty."

The King reaches out to a small bell, and rings it to summon his Steward, "I shall call you again when I am ready to set out my final will and testament. Until then…" he waves vaguely towards the door, and we are dismissed.

Now - once again - we must wait.

* * *

We remain in our quarters for five more days, with no news. On the third day, Cranmer arrives, which suggests most strongly of all that we are now counting days, not weeks, "I wish it were under better circumstances, my Lord," He sighs as he joins us to sup in Cromwell's quarters, for there are not enough people present to use the Hall.

Between us, we divide our time between wandering the empty passages of the Palace, reading, playing cards, talking and sleeping. There is no summons from the King's chamber, and we see no sign of either Denny or Edmund. Surely it cannot be much longer…

By my reckoning, it is the twenty seventh day of January when we are finally asked back into the King's apartments - to find that he has now retired to bed. Doctor Wendy is nearby, as is Doctor Butts, though their expressions are grim. Henry himself is propped up with pillows in his great bed, but his breathing is stertorous now, and we know that the end is near. Why else would we have been called in?

"Who have you chosen for the Regency Council?" He wheezes, "Tell me."

Hertford leans in and reads the list of names that we have put together, "This is, of course, subject to your agreement, Majesty."

"It is given. That is a good balance."

As the Succession is settled, all that remains is for the King to set out his final instructions for matters such as the disposal of his property. This he has done by dictating a document to Denny, which we have already viewed, and its ratification and witnessing is easily accomplished. The final work completed, Henry sinks back onto his pillows and drifts off to sleep.

"It shall not be much longer, my Lords." Doctor Wendy says, sadly, "Perhaps we should now offer up our prayers?"

Each of us settles down on our knees, as Cranmer quietly intones the _Nunc Dimittis,_ "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation…"

It is a dreadfully long night, listening to that dreadful sound of wheezing, and wondering if each breath shall be the last - and then hearing the next, and the next, and the next. Cranmer busies himself with assembling the eucharist, as - regardless of our views - Henry has retained most of his Catholic beliefs and thus shall demand the administration of Viaticum before he dies.

The first light of a cold, sunlit morning draws the King from his slumbers, and he looks at us with mild confusion, but seems grateful at the presence of a priest. Thus we withdraw briefly while Cranmer hears the King's last confession, and administers the final communion, before we return and re-commence that awful death-watch. Gradually the sun climbs, and the lights it sends through the windows crawl their way across the rich carpet upon the bedchamber floor.

I think I am almost ready to fall asleep myself, despite the immense discomfort of my knees, when we are suddenly startled by a rustling of the bedclothes, and look up to see that Henry is awake, wide eyed, and seems to see something before him that we cannot, as he cries out, "Monks! Monks! Monks!" and then falls back unconscious into his pillows. Oh God - what did he see? The ranks of those who were evicted as we closed their houses? Are they waiting for him to settle accounts?

And then it happens - a sudden, sharp intake of breath, a horrible gurgling rattle, then another, and another, and - as though enough is enough, he sinks into silence, and is finally still.

His eyes nervous, Doctor Wendy approaches, and holds a candle close to the King's mouth and nose, then pricks him on the wrist with a sharp bodkin. The flame remains still, while the stick of the needle elicits no response. Even so, the Doctor seems most unwilling to speak, pressing his fingertips to the thick neck, and waiting for a moment. Finally, he sighs, and turns to us, "Gentlemen, his Majesty has passed."

* * *

It seems utterly unreal to me. Henry Tudor, the eighth Henry of England, is no more - but his presence was so powerful that it seems quite impossible that he is gone. I almost refuse to believe it - but I was there when it happened, and I cannot escape that awful truth. Our King is gone, and now we must live without him.

"I shall send word to Placentia," Cromwell is saying to Hertford, "We must away to Hertford Castle to attend the new King. I suggest that we transfer him to his sister's presence; Enfield is on the way in to London, and thus he shall have a member of his family at his side as we return to Whitehall and to his mother, who should travel here as soon as it is possible for her to do so. I shall arrange for Wriothesley to announce the death to Parliament as soon as it is appropriate. For the moment, we should keep all quiet until the Prince knows he is now a King. He deserves nothing less."

"I agree." Hertford nods, "I shall contact Northumberland and set him to work on transferring the Court here as soon as he may."

Cromwell nods, but then looks pained, "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me." He turns, and departs.

"Where is he going?" Denny asks, bemused.

"The Chapel." Cranmer says, quietly. He knows, as much as I do, where Cromwell is going, and why.

Denny shrugs, and crosses to speak to Doctor Wendy to arrange for the preparation and coffining of the body, while Cranmer looks across at them, and then at me, "Shall you go, or shall I?"

"I shall." I advise him, "I think you are required here."

* * *

The Chapel is empty, but for a lone figure before the altar. He is not sobbing - not as I did when I learned of Wyatt's death - but I know that he is shedding tears. Despite everything, the blows, the slaps and cuffs, the insults and even an Act of Attainder, he loved his King, and now he mourns.

As I did when we knelt together after Anne died, I offer up a prayer for the soul of the King, before turning to Cromwell, "Come, Thomas - we must away to Hertford if we are to bring his Majesty to his Palace before Wriothesley announces this to Parliament at the end of the Month. We have but three days."

"How strange life is." He murmurs, still on his knees, "Surrey met his end barely a week back - but his father was set to die two days from now, and his sentence shall fall as the King is no longer alive. Despite the plots with which Thomas Howard has been involved, it has always been others who have died for them."

"I do not see him emerging from the Tower in the near future, however." I add, "He was involved with Surrey's plot, and I cannot believe he was an unwitting bystander. I doubt that his Majesty shall be minded to free him just yet."

"Ah yes; his Majesty." Cromwell sighs, cuffs at his eyes with his sleeves and rises to his feet, "Let us be off, then. I would prefer not to have to do this - for I fear we are on the verge of breaking a boy's heart."

* * *

We are more fortunate in our journey north, as the road has recently been paved, and the snow has been largely cleared from it. The surroundings, however, are a stark monochrome - as though the land about us is already clad in mourning. We, however, are not. Not yet - the important thing is to ensure that Edward is with his beloved sister when we deliver the bad news to him - he should have family at his side in such times as this.

He is delighted to see us - and seems not to have guessed why we should have come. It seems, then, that he is entirely unaware of the deterioration of his father's health over Christmastide - which is both helpful to us in our deception, and cruel in the shock that we shall be forced to impart, "Uncle! Greetings of the New year to you!"

"Greetings to you too, Highness. We are come at Royal command to escort you to the house of your beloved Sister."

"Elizabeth?" Edward claps his hands, happily, "I shall set Sir Richard to work at once! We shall depart within the hour!"

"I think you shall need a little more time than that, Highness." Hertford smiles, "But if there are no objections, we can be under way as soon as we may, and your baggage shall follow as soon as it is ready?"

"And shall you tell me more tales of your adventures, my Lord Chancellor?" Edward asks, though I note that he is speaking far more excitedly than usual - even if he does not know why we are here, I think he must have his suspicions, and is trying to avoid thinking of them.

"I shall indeed, Highness. Your Royal Mother requires us to accompany you owing to your grand Estate, and the act against you by the late Lord Surrey."

"What of him, Sir? I have had no news from London since before Christmastide."

"The Earl of Surrey was beheaded upon Tower Hill a week ago, Highness," Hertford advises, "I think the intervening time of imprisonment had caused him to reconsider his more extreme views – particularly those of your mother – and he made a most magnificent speech of true contrition, and accepted the axe with the greatest courage of a nobleman."

Edward seems to relax somewhat at this - it seems that he has accepted the explanation, and it has set his fears to rest. I find myself feeling most guilty that we are doing such a thing to him - for he thinks that he has escaped the worst of news, but it is yet to come.

Thanks to the good condition of the road, we are at Enfield as night draws in on the same day that we departed Hertford, and Elizabeth's staff are put to a great deal of commotion as they find themselves obliged to house and feed a great party of men from her brother's household. She is no more aware of the situation than her brother, and they greet one another happily, and walk together back into the great house.

We exchange sad glances, for now we must shatter that happiness in a single stroke. Edward is but nine years old, and now he must be told not only that his father is dead, but that his boyhood days are done.

Hertford pauses and catches the elbow of Elizabeth's woman, Kat Ashley, and whispers in her ear. She looks horrified for a moment, but then nods, and hastens into the house. By the time we follow, the youngsters are seated in comfortable chairs beside the fire in the hall.

They know - immediately they know, from our expressions alone. I can see Edward's eyes widening in fear, and he reaches out to his sister for reassurance.

"I beg your forgiveness," Hertford says, sadly, "I did not wish to impart this news while you were alone and far from family. I fear to tell you that your Royal Father, Henry of England, went to God a day ago. And thus I am come to offer my loyalty and service to your Majesty, King Edward of England." He goes down on one knee, as Cromwell and I do likewise.

"Uncle?" He seems unable at first to take it in, "That cannot be so, uncle - please do not jest with me!"

Elizabeth, however, is grasping him close, for she can see that the awful news is true, and a few moments later, the boy howls in anguish as he is forced to accept that his father is dead. For what feels like an eternity, the pair cling to one another like storm-tossed birds in a raging storm.

Then Cromwell steps forward, "Majesty, your Royal mother is already travelling to Whitehall, and shall be there when you arrive. We shall take you to her, and she shall welcome you to your Palace. As I promised you when first you learned of my purpose, I shall be as faithful and loyal a servant to you as as I was to your father, for I also mourn his loss. No matter what is to come, you shall not be required to face it alone."

It is quite remarkable: no sooner has Cromwell spoken than Edward quietly disengages himself from his sister's arms, and stands a little taller. Pale he may be, but that indefinable aura of Royalty is already beginning to settle about him, and he nods, firmly, "Thank you, your Grace. When the time comes for me to appoint my council, you shall be at its forefront, as shall you, Uncle, and you, my Lord Rich."

Again, we bow to him.

The King is dead. Long live the King.


	10. Dressed in Mourning

**PART TWO**

 **Dawn of the Cub**

Chapter Ten

 _Dressed in Mourning_

It is most strange to travel back to London in the company of a new King, and no one know of it. The news has not yet been announced, either to the people or to Parliament, and even most of the Council are not yet aware of it, and assume that the Queen is making her way to Whitehall at the command of the King, largely for the reason that he summoned Hertford, Cromwell and I.

Elizabeth is even paler than usual - her alabaster skin almost a dead white under the rich velvet hood, gabled the English fashion, and a stark contrast to the vivid green and gold of her riding cloak. She is, however, a master of guarding her true feelings, having learned the art well during her days at Court, and none of the simple villagers and farmers we pass can guess that the youth that they cheer as their Prince is now their King. Even Edward himself seems quite adept at the skill, though we who know him can see that he rides with a straighter back, and a solemn expression that is a world away from his youthful exuberance.

In deference to the sudden increase in the youth's status, both Cromwell and I are wearing our weapons on open display, and our finest clothes, as is Hertford, though his sword is far less impressive than ours. As we travelled without a large escort, the King's entourage is rather smaller than would have accompanied his father; though that shall certainly be rectified once we have arrived at Court.

Fortunately for us all, the weather is bright and crisp, a deep blue sky above our heads to counter the almost sorrowful aspect of the countryside around us. It also helps to contribute to a strange sense of unreality that I have not been able to escape since we left Whitehall. It seems impossible that this is happening; the King is dead, and we are escorting his successor to his Capital. But how can that be so? Henry's presence loomed so large over us all that - even had we not been prevented from doing so on pain of death - we never envisaged that he could be taken from us. But he is gone, and we must find our way in an entirely new world.

We ride in silence, for no one can think of anything to say; Mistress Ashley makes a few attempts - but the conversation dies almost immediately on each try and she eventually gives up. I am always relieved at the end of a journey when I see the towers of Whitehall rising in the distance; but today, as we cross the great parkland of St James, my relief is greater than it has ever been.

The river is still thickly iced, and thus no boats are putting out. People are crossing the river on foot, and a few are risking the additional weight of a horse, but the Queen and her party have avoided the possibility of an accident, and have instead travelled by road. Fortunately, they are already present, and she has spent some time with Denny and Edmund overseeing the preparation of her husband's coffin for its eventual removal to Windsor for burial.

Lady Rochford is waiting for us as we clatter into the Mews, and waits for us to dismount before approaching and executing a perfect curtsey to her new King, "Your Majesty, your royal Mother awaits you in the Queen's Privy Chamber." She turns to Elizabeth, and curtseys again, "My Lady, welcome home. I have come to escort you with the King."

Thank God - Elizabeth is being assured from the very beginning that she is a welcome and valued member of the King's family. Given her parentage, and the scandal that struck her when her mother fell, I suspect she would have been unsure of acceptance in the house of her half brothers and their mother.

Once again, Lady Rochford speaks, "Gentlemen, the Queen asks that you give her an hour's privacy with the King, Prince Henry and Lady Elizabeth, and present yourselves to her at the third hour after noon."

Cromwell bows to her, "We shall do so. Thank you, my Lady."

We watch as Hertford and Lady Rochford escort their royal charges indoors, while Mistress Ashley oversees the organisation of the baggage that is just starting to arrive aboard ox-carts, "I think they shall be glad for their privacy, Richie. I shall go in search of Denny to see how things stand. You are welcome to join me; or, if you wish to make your own investigations, please do."

"I think I shall return to my quarters awhile, Thomas. Forgive me, but I think it might be worth seeing what has emerged from the House - in case the news has emerged before we are prepared."

"That is a wise thought, Richie. I shall advise you of how matters lie when we meet with the Queen later."

Perhaps he knows that I am making excuses, but I wish to spend at least a short time to myself before we must start work on establishing the new reign.

Wolsey, however, has other ideas.

 _Why are you hiding, Rich? You are needed at Thomas's side._

"I know, Eminence. I should be with him - and I shall be; but I need at least a moment's peace to gather my thoughts. Are you aware of any who might seek to profit from this moment of interregnum? If I have that foreknowledge, then at least I can be of use to Thomas when I return to his side."

He is silent for a while, but then, when he replies, I can hear the sadness in his voice, _I know of nothing, Richard. Forgive my bad temper - even here in Purgatory, I feel the loss of a great soul. Even when he turned from me, and I was cast out of his favour, I loved him as my liege Lord and King._

And so we all mourn. How strange - there were times when I could have hated King Henry for his cruelty and capriciousness. The risks we took each day of stirring his temper, and the ease with which he could be turned against those whom he had previously loved. The endless work of trying to find the money to pay for his extravagances, to persuade him against war with his neighbours…

But, for all his faults, which were legion, he held his Court in thrall, and presided over a government that was beginning to make such remarkable changes for ordinary Englishmen. He shall be mourned by most Englishmen, I think - and God knows we shall struggle to bring Edward out of his shadow and into the sun. There are so many who would try to take control of that boy; and, even with his Mother to rule as Regent, we shall be hard put to prevent them. I am truly grateful that there are no demons to fight - for the greatest battle ahead is against men.

##

I suspect that Cromwell knows I have done nothing while I have been in my apartments, but he says nothing, and smiles a little sadly as we arrive at the Queen's Apartments, "Denny has overseen the coffining, and her Majesty has viewed his remains. The coffin shall remain _in situ_ for the time being, until arrangements have been made for the funeral, at which point it shall be transported to Windsor via Syon Abbey."

"Have the Council been advised?"

"Not yet. I suspect that we shall discuss that with their Majesties shortly. Despite his tender years, this is not a matter in which we can act without the knowledge and involvement of the King."

As we are admitted, we can both see that her Majesty, his Majesty, Prince Hal and the Lady Elizabeth have all shed tears together, and are now ready to face what is to come. It could not be clearer that Edward is grateful that he still has his mother at his side, and the presence of his sister is equally welcome. From his expression, I think that he also views us with similar relief.

"Your Majesties, your Highness, Madam." Cromwell bows to the Queen and her children each in turn, "Please allow me to offer our deepest condolences for your loss."

"Thank you, my Lord." Queen Jane smiles at us, "We are most grateful for your presence in this difficult time. I think we must decide between us where and when to gather the late King's Council, must we not?"

"Yes, Majesties. Parliament is in session, so there shall be no need to recall the Commons. Thus I suggest that the Council be gathered on the morrow, and then Parliament be informed on the next day. Mr Wriothesley is already chosen to perform that task."

"Sir Anthony has presented my late Lord's Will to me, and I am prepared to act as Regent while my Son learns to govern and rule."

"His Will is also protected by the law, Majesty. None shall have any grounds to dispute your rights as Regent, or his Majesty's right when he is of age."

"Shall there be a Lord Protector?" she asks, "I appreciate that it was not your plan, but I have no doubt that at least one of the Lords of the Council shall wish to call themselves so."

"The King's will, and the Law, forbid it, Majesty. Your Brother, Lord Leighs and I shall stand at your side as your Councillors, and there shall be no Lord Protector."

"Not Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal?" she asks, smiling slightly.

"Not unless his Majesty appoints us so, Majesty. My service as Lord Chancellor ended with the previous reign, as did my Lord of Leighs's service. When the Council is gathered at the graveside, we shall break our staffs to signify the end of our service to his late Majesty, and await the appointment of a new Council to serve your Majesties."

She nods, and turned to Edward, who looks at us both, "I shall re-appoint you both, Sirs."

"If that is your wish, Majesty, then we shall be honoured." Cromwell bows to him, and I do likewise.

"I have retained the list of Councillors that we agreed shall serve on his Majesty's Council, Gentlemen." Queen Jane advises us, "I shall keep it to myself until the time comes for the Council to be assembled."

"And we shall withdraw, Majesties; that we have been privileged to be here at the last is likely to be a matter of contention with our fellow Councillors, so it is best that we assemble with them when they arrive."

Jane sighs, "I hope, though I think it a vain hope, that we shall find a way to bring such jealousies to an end. It is better for all if the Council works together, rather than divided into factions."

"There is no harm in hope, Majesty." I venture to speak, "It may be that we shall all discover our better selves and learn to co-operate. If I could do so, then I am quite sure that my fellow Councillors would be able to." I think she can see that I am not entirely serious. Even I am not such a fool as to believe what I am saying. The day that men are no longer attracted by power is the same day that snow shall fall in hell, I think; for I am as much at risk of it as any other. Second, or no.

The rest of the Council are due to arrive by nightfall, so we withdraw to Cromwell's apartments for an early supper. It seems most strange to me that they do not yet know that the King is dead - but I am quite certain that they shall indeed be most put out that we were present at the end, and brought Edward home to his Palace. Consequently we are both rather uncomfortable over the gathering to come.

"Did you speak to Wolsey?" Cromwell asks as we seat ourselves before a haunch of venison, bread and buttered artichokes. Why am I surprised that he knew what I did when he was with Denny?

"I did. He mourns as we do; despite his residence in Purgatory. Though he did not say whether the King's soul shall join his there. I think, when he speaks of the next world to me, he does so more in jest than with honesty - for it is not for us to know."

"Indeed it is not. I have felt the wonder of Heaven though, Richie, and I live in hope that we shall be welcomed there. And that all who have entered God's house before us shall greet us with warmth and friendship even after all that has gone before."

"As I said to the Queen - there is no harm in hope."

We eat in silence for a while, until Cromwell sets down his knife and sighs, "Perhaps I should not be - but I am afraid, Richie. Even though the late King was as capricious as those most dread Roman Emperors of which men such as Tacitus wrote, he was a constant in this Realm. Now he is gone - and we must navigate uncharted waters with fellow men who would hurl us into the churning main without hesitation."

"You are not alone in your fear, Thomas; for I am the same. I think that, once, I would have seen this with hope of supplanting another in order to gain a more powerful Court position. Now, however, I am one of those whom others would look to supplant. While we enjoy the favour of the King, and the risk of others destroying us through flattering him and seeking to turn him from us is all but gone - I cannot help but wonder if those who would be rid of us might seek to raise Hal up in Edward's place. He favours his father's temperament as Edward favours his mother's - and thus he is more malleable to those who wish to gain power."

Cromwell smiles a rather sad smile, "Alas, Richie, I wish I could laugh at your fears - but I cannot; for they are not without precedent. I think, however, that we shall have time to consolidate our allies while those who might wish to claim power for themselves hesitate in order to see how the land lies."

"I think I am overthinking matters," I admit, "but I would rather do so, and be relieved to find it not to be so, than discount it, and find myself to be wrong."

"While standing upon a scaffold?" Cromwell's smile is less sad now, for we are further from that dread outcome than we have ever been, and he can view it with something akin to amusement.

A light knock on the door reveals Jonathan to be outside, "Sirs, the Council has arrived."

We exchange a glance; time to gather and for the news to be broken.

* * *

The gathering in the Presence Chamber is quiet and expectant. No one present is likely to be surprised at the news to come - not if the glances being turned at Cromwell and I are anything to go by. But then, as we were sent to Placentia while the King retired to Whitehall, why should they be surprised that he is gone?

I note some murmurings that suggest that some of those who were our colleagues in the old reign are grateful that we shall no longer be Lord Chancellor or Lord Privy Seal once we signify the end of our service by breaking our staffs. How they shall react when we are appointed back into those roles by the new King, I cannot begin to imagine, though I suspect that small, spiteful imp that lives within me shall enjoy their likely dismay.

Despite our already knowing, and having brought his Majesty back from Hertford ourselves, we assemble with the rest of the former councillors to await the news that is known to us, and suspected by those around us. The arrival of Queen Jane, accompanied by Denny and a small group of her ladies, is sufficient warning, and all of us seem to stand up a little straighter as she stands to face us, "My Lords, I thank you for your patience. It is my sad duty to advise you that my Lord and husband, King Henry, is now with God. Thus, as was agreed by his Majesty, and ratified by law, I will serve England as her Regent while his Majesty King Edward is in his minority."

For a moment, all are silent. Even though everyone suspected this, the confirmation of it stuns everyone around us. In some ways, it stuns me, too - even though I was present when Henry died. It is Cromwell, as Earl of Essex, that makes the first move, bowing deeply, "Your Majesty. Please allow me to offer our deepest condolences upon your loss. I can assure you that we shall, as our last service to his late Majesty, accompany him to his final resting place with honour."

Behind him, with varying degrees of resentment, the rest of the Council follow his move and bow. I do the same, though without the resentment.

"Thank you, your Grace; thank you all. I accept your assurance of that last service to my late Lord. Thus I shall require your Grace, my Lords of Leighs, Northumberland and Bedford, and Mr Paget to aid and advise me in these days as we prepare to lay him to rest. We shall meet in my Privy Chamber after the midday meal. My Lords, those of you whom I have not named are equally welcome and I shall require your presence and support as we look to the future and his Majesty, my son, is proclaimed; as is his right as the true King of England."

"You shall have it, Majesty." Northumberland says, with such haste that he seems almost to be trying to prevent Cromwell from speaking first. Duke he may be, but he is far newer to the Council than any other in the room, and clearly needs to make his presence felt. It could not be clearer that he is manoeuvring to step to the front of the new Government. As he knows nothing of our purpose, I fear he shall find himself disappointed when we are ahead of him in the Regent's estimation. I really do need to quell that imp.

"Thank you, your Grace." The Regent smiles at him, "I shall see you and your colleagues anon." With that, we bow as she turns and departs.

There is a great deal of conversation amongst the assembled Lords, but neither Cromwell nor I are particularly keen to remain. Most are still to settle into their assigned accommodation, and they are soon on their way to find their quarters, leaving us free to make our way from the Presence Chamber.

"I think we shall have trouble from Northumberland." Cromwell mutters, as we make our way back to my quarters, as I have offered to host him for dinner, "His keenness to speak over me could not have been more strongly stated."

"If he tries that in front of the Regent, I suspect she shall give him short shrift, Thomas. John Dudley has done nothing yet to earn her trust as we have earned it."

"Indeed he has not, Richie - but he is possibly the most ambitious man that we have seen at the Council table in many years, and with a new King about to be proclaimed, he is sure to do what he can to place himself at the forefront of the new Council when it is appointed. After what his Majesty's father did to his father, this is the best opportunity yet to wipe out that stain upon his family's name, and regain the power that Edmund Dudley once held before Henry threw his life away to evade the blame for the previous reign's hated taxes. As yet, of course, our service to the late King is not fully ended, and shall not be until we have broken our staffs and laid them in his tomb; but nonetheless, I have not seen a man so singularly intent upon the accumulation of personal power since Thomas Boleyn worked to destroy Wolsey."

"Then we have one last duty, do we not?" I say, as we reach my quarters and seat ourselves before a fine leg of mutton and bread, "To secure the new King's future, and his father's legacy."

Cromwell nods, then smiles, "And not a demon in sight."

* * *

There is a strange atmosphere about the City as I emerge aboard Urban to make my way to Grant's Place to speak to Cecil. He shall have heard the general announcements of the King's death as everyone else has, but I prefer to ensure that he is fully apprised of all that has happened, and what shall happen now.

I can make the journey there and back in a day, despite the slippery streets and cold wind that bites at my fingers as they grip the reins, for I must come back before nightfall, to ensure that I am in the Palace tomorrow to assemble with the rest of the Council to proclaim Edward as the new King. It would not do to be absent, no matter how urgent or important my presence elsewhere. Urban is remarkably surefooted, and we make excellent time, arriving in the yard as one of the men is emerging from the house. As he leads my horse through to the stables for a good rub-down, I am greeted by Miss Parsons, and I am not sure whether I am more bemused at not facing Goodwife Dawson, or not being berated for arriving unannounced, "Is Mr Cecil available, Miss Parsons?"

"Yes, Mr Rich," It seems that even she refers to me by name rather than my Lordly rank; sure proof that she has been trained by Goody Dawson. Even though she does not know the truth of us, she still seems to know that the work that we do when we are in her house is vastly more important than any work that we do at Court, "He is in your Chamber."

So that is how they refer to the room that contains the door to the Library. Even now, it is considered to be mine, "Thank you, Miss Parsons. Please pass my greetings on to the Goodwife."

Cecil, remarkably bundled up in wools and furs, looks up as I enter the Chamber, "Good day to you, Richard. I take it you have come to advise me of what is to be done in the light of the pronouncements made yesterday and today?"

"Indeed I have. I cannot stay long William. I must return to Whitehall as soon as possible, as his Majesty King Edward shall be proclaimed on the morrow, and I must be present when that is done - one of my last duties to his late Majesty before we attend his funeral."

"So it is true, then." He sighs.

"It is indeed, William. He passed reasonably peacefully, I think. He received communion and his last confession from Mr Cranmer, and we waited at his side until God called him home."

"How is her Majesty?"

"Well - though grieving. Her primary concern is now the welfare of his Majesty, and preparations to ensure that he is unchallenged, and learns to rule well."

"And we shall aid her in that?"

"We shall indeed. God above, I am cold William. Shall we find a chamber with a fire?"

"Of course - forgive me, Richard, I had not thought to lay a fire - for none of the household servants are permitted entry. I find the use of warm clothing to be equally efficacious."

"I take it that you find it near impossible to light one?"

"That, also." He admits, a little sheepishly.

"I cannot criticise," I sigh, "But for Dickon, I should have been as obliged to cloak myself so utterly as you have done."

"We are quite a pair, are we not?"

"I fear so." We enter the small parlour, and find a cheerful fire within. I am most grateful for the warmth, for I have not jested in stating that I must remain only a short while, and the need to escape the awful pervasive chill of the later stages of winter is singularly deep.

"How is Thomas?" Cecil asks, as Miss Parsons serves us warmed, sweetened wine.

"Tired, I fear; and in some pain. We had intended that Tom Wyatt and I would work at his side, should there be any further demonic incursions - so it was a great sadness to lose Tom over Christmastide."

"I was most dismayed to hear of his loss, Richard."

"I recently took delivery of his sword, William - he had left it to me to hand on to another Second. I should be delighted to pass it to you."

"Forgive me, Richard; but I have no skill with weaponry - blade or bullet. It is better that I leave such abilities to you, for I could not hope to match you in skill."

"You have not seen me shoot." I smile at him, "But then, so poor is my aim that I fear I might have shot you accidentally if you had been anywhere near me. Very well, then, I shall retain the blade in memory of Tom, and perhaps present it to the House in his name."

"What are your plans now?"

"We shall proclaim Edward, then lay his father to rest. After that? Well, that is in the hands of her Majesty the Queen Regent at the outset, though I have no doubt that she shall not make any decision without the inclusion of her son in the discussions. It is highly likely that Hertford shall be granted a higher peerage, and shall lead the Regency Council, though not as Protector; while Thomas shall be reappointed as Lord Chancellor, and I as Lord Privy Seal. We shall then, between us, work to secure his Majesty's rights, and give him the time he needs to become a man, and the education he needs to be come a King."

"I shall, of course, offer any assistance you require, either as your Second in Training, or as a Lawyer. You have only to ask."

"Thank you, William. I may well seek that offered assistance; for there are some matters of concern to me that I shall need to research as soon as time allows."

"Tell me of it - I can begin researching for you in your absence."

"It is of no importance at this time. I shall consider it once we have secured the Regent's rights to govern, and the King's right to rule."

We pause to eat a hasty midday meal before I swathe myself once again in wool and furs to begin the return journey to Whitehall. The snow has resumed, and is falling thickly as Urban hastens along Fleet Street at a brisk trot. There are no people about to get in our way along the roads of Cheapside and Blackfriars, so I am not as horribly drenched in melting flakes as I might have been as we clatter down the Strand towards Charing Cross in the fading light of the day. I am dreadfully cold, and my hope that John has anticipated my hopes of a hot bath and a good supper are more than met. Consequently, I retire to bed in a remarkably contented frame of mind.

* * *

Kings are expected to proclaim themselves, and so we gather in the Presence Chamber at the appointed hour to await his arrival. I am surprised to find that Cromwell is not present - though I did not expect to see Hertford, as he shall be accompanying his King as the new head of the Regency Council. When they arrive, however, I am startled to find that Cromwell is with them; not upon my own account, but for the certain ire that his presence shall inspire amongst those around me. He does not, however, stand alongside her Majesty or Hertford; choosing instead to stand to the rear as his Majesty steps forth to recite the proclamation that he has clearly committed to memory.

"Edward VI, by the grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith and of the Church of England and also of Ireland in earth the supreme head, to all our most loving, faithful, and obedient subjects, and to every of them, greeting.

"Where it hath pleased Almighty God, on Friday last past in the morning to call unto his infinite mercy the most excellent high and mighty prince, King Henry VIII of most noble and famous memory, our most dear and entirely beloved father, whose soul God pardon; forasmuch as we, being his only son and undoubted heir, be now invested and established in the crown imperial of this realm, and other his realms, dominions, and countries, with all regalities, pre-eminences, styles, names, titles, and dignities to the same belonging or in any wise appertaining:

"We do by these presents signify unto all our said most loving, faithful, and obedient subjects that like as we for our part shall, by God's grace, show ourself a most gracious and benign sovereign lord to all our good subjects in all their just and lawful suits and causes, so we mistrust not but they and every of them will again, for their parts, at all times and in all cases, show themselves unto us, their natural liege lord, most faithful, loving, and obedient subjects, according to their bounden duties and allegiances, whereby they shall please God and do the thing that shall tend to their own preservations and sureties; willing and commanding all men of all estates, degrees, and conditions to see our peace kept and to be obedient to our laws, as they tender our favour and will answer for the contrary at their extreme peril."

He pauses, then continues, "It is our will and desire that our most beloved royal Mother, Queen Jane, shall govern England as our regent in the years of our minority. Thus it is our expectation that our faithful subjects shall accept her regency until such time as we are, by God's grace, of age and shall lead our nation as her true and righteous king."

We all bow, to a man, and Hertford steps forth, "God save the King!"

"God Save the King!" all cry in response.

The proclamation of the cub has been made; now we must bury the lion.

* * *

So it is done: the news has been released to the Commons, and to the People, and Edward has both proclaimed himself King, and declared his mother Regent during his minority. Even now, the Spies are telling us of great outpourings of grief - in London, at least. I am less sure of the response of those outside the Capital, though even there I imagine there is a sense of fear at what is to come - for if Henry loomed large over the Court, his shadow stretched across the nation; and his strength, and might, are almost legendary amongst those of little status to claim for themselves. Regardless of how she is loved by the people, Queen Jane faces many challenges as Regent, for no woman has ever ruled in the absence of a Crowned husband. Queen Katherine was the last to hold the rank of Regent, a duty that she carried with aplomb, but the King in whose place she ruled was a man grown. The King now, however, is a child of less than ten years - and we shall have to work hard to ensure that we can hold the Kingdom until Edward is grown enough to rule in his own right.

We have all worked together so far, fortunately, and the five of us tasked with working alongside her Majesty have also managed to avoid any ridiculous arguments over matters such as precedence or rights to be present. The Regent's obvious respect for Cromwell and I - and the fact that we had equally obviously earned that respect - have largely driven the wind from Northumberland's sails in terms of his assumption that she is easily dominated by a man. Does he not appreciate that she navigated the dangerous waters of marriage to a man who broke with Rome to gain a woman who he then discarded in less than four years?

Queen Jane has decreed that the King shall be laid to rest on the fifteenth day of February, and the coffin transported the day before, where it shall rest, as agreed, at Syon Abbey before being taken in solemn procession to Windsor upon the day of the funeral. I have been advised that small groups of people are already gathering to view the coffin as it passes, and we have therefore increased the escort of guards - not so much for protection as to increase the grandeur of the procession.

She is clad in mourning as Cromwell, Northumberland, Bedford, Paget and I gather to agree a few outstanding details before the coffin departs Whitehall for the last time.

"Please be seated, Gentlemen," She says, as we bow deeply, and she smiles as we sit with a rather confused air, as we are unused to such courtesy from a Monarch, "I think all is settled, now that my son is proclaimed, but I am concerned at how little he has been abroad - it is most important that we ensure that his right to rule is unchallenged."

"Then perhaps he should go on progress at the first opportunity, Majesty." Northumberland suggests, brusquely, "The sooner he is seen, the sooner that his subjects shall know him."

"I am not sure that that is wise, your Grace," the Queen sighs, "He is so young."

"There shall be ample time for progresses, your Majesty." Cromwell advises, quietly, "But I agree with his Grace that the people should see their new King; so we should concentrate upon a grand coronation that shall introduce him to London as he travels from the Tower to the Abbey, as did his late Father."

Northumberland's glare is not as vicious as might be expected - for if it had been, I suspect we should all have considered it to be quite churlish given Cromwell's agreement with his sentiments. He is a fool if he thinks he can outperform the Earl of Essex at the Council table - after all, he is competing against a man who has sat there almost since Wolsey was removed. Only a conspiracy that relied upon planted evidence was sufficient to remove him - and even that was overturned when the truth emerged.

While the Queen does not comment, I can see his behaviour has not gone unnoticed; though Northumberland seems oblivious to it, and unaware that he shall now have even more ground to make up if he is to ever win her trust.

The following morning, we assemble alongside the Great Gate as a great hearse makes its way out on the first stage of its journey west. The catafalque atop it is covered with swagged black velvet and draped with strings of white pearls. Above that is the enormous coffin that contains Henry's mortal remains, also draped in black velvet and topped at the head with his gold circlet and sword. The guards who accompany it are dressed in their finest red livery and carry their halberds at their shoulders as they march with precision. We all bow deeply as the hearse, drawn by four great black horses, passes by, guided by the sure hand of a postillion astride the lead horse. We shall see it next in the dark hours of the early morning on the morrow.

I am sure I can hear lamenting voices beyond those gates as those who are gathered there watch the sad procession pass by. While there are no such lamentations within, we are all held in silence by that dreadful sight. The King is dead - and his successor is a child. With so many threats to the Kingdom, we must now hold the centre, or we shall all be lost.

We return to the Palace in the midst of a light snowfall, and I am grateful to retire to my apartments to sit before a warm fire and sup mulled cider, made as I prefer it now that John has travelled across to the Palace.

"And so it begins, Eminence. The King's remains are on their way to Syon, and we shall travel in their wake."

 _Indeed so, Richard. It seems most strange to me that he is no longer with you. He seemed almost immortal._

"No man is immortal, Eminence. Not on this earth, at least."

 _Be ready. Your King is a mere boy, and there are many who would set you, Thomas and the boy's mother aside to steal his power for their own._

"We have done what we can, Eminence - if you can think of anything that we might have missed, I should be most grateful."

 _You forget, Richard; I cannot see all things. I shall need to discuss your thoughts with you before I can offer my opinion. My abilities to see the dangers that approach you are limited to supernatural creatures only. Do not think of it now - for you have a long ride ahead of you, followed by a longer day on foot. I suggest that you retire early._

"Are you my mother now, Eminence?"

He snorts with mild amusement, and I am alone again. He is right, though, so I abandon further thoughts of the morrow, and seek my bed.

* * *

The air is bitter, and we are all swathed in black cloaks, while I wish I could wear my coif as my ears are dreadfully cold. We are permitted to ride as far as the boundaries of the Great Park, at which point we shall dismount and gather to await the hearse, and accompany the King the rest of the way to the Chapel of St George on foot. The Regent and King Edward, accompanied by Prince Hal and Lady Elizabeth, travelled down yesterday in a litter and are already present at the Castle to greet the hearse when it arrives there.

While there is no snow, that which already lies is crisp and sparkling with frost as the sun rises. Our horses are now being led to the Castle to be stabled in anticipation of our departure later, but for now we shall walk. We stand together, and wait for the hearse, but already rumours are spreading of a most unsettling nature, "But didn't Peyto prophesy it? Has it truly come to pass?"

"It seems so."

Cromwell draws me aside, "It seems that there was an eruption of bloody matter from the coffin overnight while the body was resting at Syon Abbey, and the workman who came to seal the coffin assured all that he saw a dog licking it from the floor. Some of those present recall a statement by the Friar Edward Peyto back in the days when Anne was Queen who claimed that, if Henry behaved as King Ahab had done, then dogs would lick up his blood, as happened to Ahab. They think that prophesy to have been fulfilled."

"And what do you think, Thomas?" I ask.

"I think nothing, Richie. There is no help for it now, for Henry is dead, and what is past is past. He has been dead for nearly two weeks - and even in such chill as this, his body has begun to return to dust and ashes as all mortal remains are fated to do. That there was a rift in the lead of the coffin is unfortunate - but what is there to be said? Peyto spoke against the King's annulment and remarriage - and was imprisoned for it until he fled into exile where he remains to this day."

"An unfortunate coincidence, then."

"I think so. But here is the hearse, and so we shall walk our late liege lord to his place of eternal rest."

We make a truly sombre procession, black-clad, holding our staffs of office in our right hands and walking in slow procession either side of the equally black-covered hearse and draped coffin. Crowds have gathered as we make our way together, the honour guard to the fore, and lesser courtiers, who have travelled separately, following behind.

While it is not yet formalised, Hertford leads us as the intended head of the Regency Council, foremost on the right hand side, and Cromwell walks at the head of the column to the left. I am directly behind him, and I know that Northumberland is behind Hertford, though I cannot see him.

Gradually, we work our way along the wide, paved Royal Mile to the Castle, as the crowds of commons grow. Now and again, someone calls out "God save you, King Harry." Or, "Blessings upon you, King Harry." Or similar sentiments. Many shed tears; for the people of England appreciated him as a great figure of Royal might. They knew nothing of his dangerous tempers, or his vile, rotting legs. His infirmities and his cruelties. To them, he was a velvet and silk-clad Solomon, a magnificently bejewelled Caesar. And now he has come to his end. I do not look left or right, but I can hear that some of those who watch are openly weeping.

Finally, we reach the outside of the Chapel, and wait as the honour guard carefully, and with remarkable precision, lift the heavy coffin and bear it upon their shoulders. We follow, now in procession together, with Hertford at our head, Northumberland and Bedford behind him, while Cromwell and I lead the lesser men of Government, shoulder to shoulder, and we then assemble in the great Quire, where the Royal Family are already present, and a great vault has been opened in the floor. While most are seated, we remain standing, and Cranmer stands with us to lead the service.

We wait as the heavy coffin is lowered into the vault, after which each of us, in turn, steps forth, breaks our staff of office and drops it into the tomb. Thus our service to King Henry is ended.

Now we shall wait to see who shall serve King Edward.


	11. Family Ties

**A/N:** Thank you for your kind review, Catalinadelvalle - I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Coincidentally, in response to your request to see Mary visit - read on!

Thank you as well, Guest - I'm busy with other projects at the moment, but I shall certainly bear your challenge in mind. In the meantime, however, here's another update...

* * *

Chapter Eleven

 _Family Ties_

If the atmosphere at Court was strange before the funeral, it seems even stranger now - for we are all Courtiers without appointments, and now those who held positions upon the Council must wait to see if they regain them or, they hope, better them. Cromwell and I, of course, are assured that we shall take up where we left off, as Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal respectively, but all around us are unsure whether their service to Henry shall translate into service to Edward.

The highest Lords shall be appointed to the Council first, and it is no surprise to me when Northumberland is summoned to the Privy Chamber, and returns with a look of remarkably smug satisfaction, as he has received his appointment, while the recent death of his eldest son from some contagion or other has elevated his second son, John, to the courtesy title of Viscount Lisle; and he shall join his father at the Council table.

There is no need for Hertford to be called, as he is already present, having been appointed head of the Council before the King passed. I have no doubt that his Majesty shall elevate his Uncle further once he has been formally crowned, but at present all retain their ranks. Thus, Arundel, Bedford, and all those that we settled upon when agreeing who would serve the Regent are called in their turn. Only Cromwell and I remain unappointed, and I am not surprised that he is called before I - for he is an Earl, while I am but a Baron. Other than John Dudley, I shall be the lowest ranked Peer upon the Council - though my political rank shall be amongst the highest.

When he emerges, Cromwell walks with that tall dignity that marked his presence in the Court of Henry. I do not need to ask, and he smiles as he passes, and winks, before whispering, "Your turn, Richie."

Hertford, the King, and the Queen Regent are seated upon the small dais in the Privy Chamber, and I bow before them. Jane is smiling, as Edward stands, and in his still rather piping voice bids me to rise, "My Lord Rich of Leighs, I thank you for your great service to my late Lord and and father, Henry of England. In recognition of that service, I shall re-appoint you to the post of Lord Privy Seal, for I wish to be sure that the great works you have performed shall continue uninterrupted."

I bow again, "I am overcome with gratitude, Majesty. I swear to you that I shall serve you to the best of my ability; honestly, faithfully and openly. It is my greatest wish that I shall be worthy of your trust and faith in me."

"Of that, my lord I have no doubt."

As I rise again, I see that the Queen Regent is smiling at me with that kind trust that she has bestowed upon me from the moment we pledged ourselves to her service, "We are grateful for all that you have done for this Kingdom, as we are equally grateful to my Lord of Essex. Be assured that we have retained your services for we trust no others to lead our Government in these times of great change."

"I am truly honoured, Majesty; and I shall do the very best I can to bear out your faith in me."

"We have no doubt that you shall, My Lord." Edward says, "We shall require your presence in our first Council upon the fourth day of March."

I bow again, for it is clear that I am dismissed.

"Jonathan," Hertford calls across, as I bow and back away to the exit, "Could you ask Mr Temple to summon Mr Wriothesley, please?"

* * *

It is no surprise to me, as I return to the Presence Chamber, that Northumberland looks rather irked; for he knows that we are returned to our posts - two of the five highest positions at Court - and thus he cannot truly consider himself to be ascendent over us. Furthermore, both Cromwell and I hold a degree of trust and faith that he can only aspire to; for, despite some years of service, he has not gained that same level of confidence.

"To our offices, I think, Richie." Cromwell smiles, "We have work to do - and a Coronation to organise."

"Ah, we are well practised at that, I think, Thomas; for did we not organise his mother's?"

By the time we are returned to our desks, Wriothesley has returned to his own, though his disappointment at retaining only his previous rank as King's Secretary could not be clearer. If he could be more trustworthy, of course, I have no doubt that the King would grant him a higher status; if only we could be sure that he was deserving of it. Queen Jane's lack of education masks a keen mind and a wise common sense that grants her a remarkable insight into the difference between honesty and flattery. Hopefully Edward has inherited that sense - for I am quite sure that Hal has not.

Being at Whitehall, I am restored to an office of my own, and settled down with some outstanding papers that need my attention. I am surprised by a knock upon the door, which opens to reveal John Dudley outside, "my Lord?"

Dudley came to Court with no noble rank, being the second son. Following his brother's death, however, his use of his father's rank of Earl - to which he is entitled as a courtesy peerage - means that he outranks me. I have learned, however, that he does not share the Duke's pride, and his smile is most polite as he enters.

"Your Grace - please, be seated. How can I be of assistance? Some sack, perhaps?" Why am I fussing so? I may be of lower rank, but I am vastly ahead of him in the esteem of the King and Regent. It seems that he recognises that in a way that his father does not, for his expression is one of keen enquiry, "Thank you, no, my Lord. I have come, not at the behest of my father, but in hopes of receiving assistance and tuition in the model of Government that is being promoted by his Grace the Earl of Essex. If I am to be of assistance to his Majesty, then I consider it most important that I do so in a practical manner."

This, I am not expecting; but there is some sense in me that this young man is approaching me honestly - and that he is no more infected by his father's determined ambition than King Edward is tainted by his late father's dangerous capriciousness. Where it comes from, I cannot say; perhaps long experience amongst men who seek only to advance themselves, even at the expense of another's life. As I once did.

"I did not feel it would be appropriate to approach his Grace the Lord Chancellor; but would you object if I apprenticed myself to you?"

I stare at Dudley, startled even more; what should I do? That Cromwell's organisation of Government has found an advocate in this young man is most helpful - but his intention to become apprenticed to me is not. While all is remarkably quiet in terms of demons at Court, there is no certainty that this shall continue. What if I am obliged to set my government work aside in favour of my work as a Second? While I am sure that Dudley is not a blab, the risk of his ambitious father discovering our secret is far greater than I would like. But, if I decline, I might deter the youth from becoming a valuable ally as our reforms of the Government continue. Those who desire ascendancy by right of blood would be most discomfited by our intent to establish ascendancy upon merit.

"Forgive my silence, your Grace - your offer is not at all unwelcome, I assure you. Might it be possible for me to be granted a few days' consideration to ensure that the apprenticeship you desire is suitable and worthwhile? I think it would be most useful to discuss this with my Lord of Essex, Mr Griffin and Mr Wriothesley, as you should be able to see all parts of Government at work."

Rather than be disappointed, Dudley looks quite delighted at this, "That would be most helpful, my Lord. I should find it very helpful - for I know little of Government, and I wish to be of the best service to England that I can be."

* * *

"That is most surprising, Richie." Cromwell agrees as we share a flagon of hippocras and a hand of cards in the last hours of the day, "Given the rather predatory nature of his father, I would be inclined to believe that he was intending to act as a spy."

"As would I - but for his clear sincerity, Thomas. He expressed gratitude when I stated I would defer to you, Mr Griffin and Mr Wriothesley, and seemed most intent that he learn all that he can about how England is governed."

"What do you suggest?" He asks, though I suspect he is merely asking to ascertain whether my thoughts are in accordance with his.

"I think we should take his request at face value, Thomas. Introduce him to the mechanisms of government sincerely and openly. We have, after all, nothing to conceal from him. The more he learns about the model of government you are attempting to implement, and its efficacy for the best governance of the Realm, the more likely he is to support it should any other councillor object. If he shows skills that are of use to the governance of England, then we would be fools to let that pass us by out of fear that he might have been planted amongst us by an ambitious father."

"There are times when you frighten me, Richie - for your thoughts are almost exactly mine." Cromwell is smiling, then he looks at his cards and sighs, "I wonder why I bother; I really do. This is not so much a hand as a foot."

* * *

Planning for the coronation has begun in earnest, and the Council is assembling for its third meeting. We are all still becoming accustomed to arriving in the King's presence without the dreadful reek of pus and suppurating flesh, as well as the once ever-present risk of being insulted, berated or even struck if one said something that provoked an outburst of temper. Edward has certainly inherited his mother's altogether calmer temperament, though she is equally keen to ensure that this is balanced by strength and determination: and he listens to our advice carefully, as does the Regent, and considers it fully before responding. Leader of the Council he may be, but Hertford exerts only the lightest degree of control. I imagine that that was a singular bone of contention between brother and sister, for Jane still wears a crown, and intends to do so absolutely until her son is old enough to bear that burden of duty alone. He might have improved considerably in temperament since the days when we were in a state of mutual enmity, but he is not _entirely_ devoid of ambition.

"You shall transfer to the royal apartments at the Tower at the end of this week, Majesty," Cromwell advises, "from whence you shall process through London to the Abbey at Westminster, there to be crowned by Archbishop Cranmer. The route of your procession is rather convoluted, but we consider this to be a great opportunity for you to see, and be seen by, your subjects. You are, after all, meeting them almost for the first time, are you not?"

Edward nods, happily, "Indeed so, your Grace. I am most keen to see the good people of London, and I hope that we shall not delay too long in meeting my subjects across England?"

"Once you are crowned, Majesty, we can begin consideration of a programme of annual progresses - for your royal father undertook many during his reign. It would be most appropriate for you to do likewise."

I note Northumberland glaring, for he should have liked to make that suggestion. Does he really think that he is the only one with such plans? God above, we have been listing possible destinations of future progresses for some days in anticipation of such a request. We are as keen for Edward to meet his subjects as he is.

"There is one final matter, Majesty," Hertford adds, "I have here a letter from your Royal sister Mary, who hopes greatly to undertake a visit to Court with her Royal husband, King Miguel, in order to be present at your Coronation."

"How excellent!" Edward says, delightedly, and claps his hands with pleasure, "I trust that we shall issue an invitation as soon as possible?"

"Of course, Majesty. There shall be representatives of most Kings at the Abbey - though these shall generally be Ambassadors or Noblemen from the Royal houses who are already present in England. It is most unusual for a King to travel to attend the coronation of another."

"I shall see to the preparation of a draft invitation as soon as I return to my office, Majesty." Cromwell adds, "With your approval, it can issue by trusted messenger before nightfall."

"Can she reach us before the Coronation?" Edward asks.

"We have not made the date of your Coronation public, Majesty." I advise him, "Should it be necessary, we could postpone it by a few days. If nothing else, it shall give those who are to perform tableaus and pageants along the processional route more time to prepare."

"Then let us send an invitation as soon as we may. My Lord, I should like to see an invitation as soon as one can be prepared, as I should like to append and sign it myself."

"It shall be in your hands within an hour, Majesty." Given Cromwell's skill at drafting suitable sentiments, I have no doubt it shall be in Edward's hands in barely half that time.

"Is there any further business to be discussed, Gentlemen?" Queen Jane asks, as Edward is a little too excited at the prospect of seeing his eldest sister again to remember the importance of an agenda.

"No, your Majesty." Hertford advises.

"If that is the case, then we shall rise. It is our intention to sup in private tonight, my Lords, so we shall speak to you again on the morrow. Thank you all."

We are certainly not used to being thanked, and we rise and bow as the King, Regent and Head Councillor depart together.

"I shall see you anon, Mr Rich." Cromwell advises, as the other councillors gather their papers, "I must draft this invitation. I think James has managed to secure a very good venison pie, so if you are minded to sup in my apartments tonight?"

"If there is venison pie, I certainly shall not object."

"But no cards." He insists, a little darkly.

* * *

As I expected, Cromwell provided a suitably worded invitation, and a fair copy of it was sent as the last of the light faded. The messenger is certainly aboard ship by now, and it is to be hoped that word shall be received from the Alhambra before the end of the month. Add to that the time required to prepare and dispatch a royal progress of suitable size and grandeur, and I suspect we have been wise to schedule Edward's Coronation for the end of April at the earliest. Rather a departure from the normal process, as there has rarely been a delay of such length between proclamation and coronation, but as both processes are merely formalities in the face of accession, we are merely holding up a rather grand display, rather than leaving a kingdom unruled.

To avoid too many rumours over the delay, I note that Cromwell has allowed the news of Mary's intended return to escape from the constraints of secrecy, as the time taken to receive the message, answer it, and depart shall be quite considerable, even if - as we expect - the King and Queen travel by sea. In the meantime, we have ensured that his Majesty travels regularly from Whitehall to the small church of St Margaret that lies directly beside the former Abbey Church of Westminster. While the Abbey is dissolved, the church is still of great importance to the Nation as the place in which Kings are crowned; but Edward avoids it to worship in the church that the Monks built for the parishioners who kept disturbing their enclosed masses, in order to stem further rumours about secret crownings and God knows what else.

It is, admittedly, a short journey, but nonetheless it draws crowds whenever it is known that his Majesty is undertaking devotions there. We accompany him, of course, and it is heartwarming to see the joy of the people when they see their young King, and his loved mother, travel from the Palace to Church. A taste, I think, of things to come when the procession is to the abbey, rather than the church.

While we wait for matters to be organised in Iberia, matters in Whitehall continue to be discussed - particularly the last details of the coronation service. The composer, Mr Tallis, has been commissioned to provide us with appropriate music, and has obliged with motets based upon the psalms _Quare fremuerunt gentes?_ , _Domine in virtute tua laetabitur rex_ and _Dixit Dominus_. While the words are in Latin, they have been chosen carefully for their focus upon Kingship, and their connection of a King directly with God reflects that Edward is very much of the Lutheran persuasion, and there shall be no return to the Pope while the Crown rests upon his head. I suspect, in spite of their intention, that the choice to retain the Latin is more artistic than political, however; for - despite my hopeless ignorance of the art, I certainly find liturgical music has a beauty of its own when sung in that tongue. The rest of the Coronation shall be be conducted in English, and we have both shortened it and altered it to reflect that the King is a mere child, and is also no longer subservient to the Pope.

King Edward's suit is now completed, a magnificent outfit of white velvet, embroidered with silver thread and decorated with lovers' knots made from pearls, and studded with diamonds and rubies that shall be matched in equal splendour on a great chain of office that shall crown his shoulders. This shall be topped with a simarre of gold mesh under a sable cape and he also have a white bonnet studded with pearls and dressed with ostrich feathers that cost a foolish amount of money to procure. Despite the expense, however, they serve to show off the fine red-gold of his hair - the clearest proof to any that he is the son of Henry. He shall, of course, be mounted upon his fine charger Perceval, while his mother rides upon a white palfrey. The procession shall be led by the King's trumpeters, chaplains, esquires of the body, his gentlemen and messengers, who shall be on foot. Then - on horseback, thank God, for I have no wish to walk such a distance - shall come the nobility, and we of the Council, each of us paired with a foreign guest - mostly the diplomats, though we are still undecided as to how Mary and Miguel shall be incorporated into the group. Then, to reward the patience of those who have waited, shall come the Gentleman Ushers and the Constable of England - Henry Grey, the Marquis of Dorset who shall bear the sword of state, and then her Majesty the Queen Regent - who are the last to precede their new King astride Perceval, and we have gone to a similar degree of expense to ensure that the horse is as well outfitted as his rider. Northumberland and Hertford shall escort him. Then shall come Sir Anthony Browne, the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, Gentlemen Pensioners and the royal Guard.

The canopy of estate has emerged from the careful needles of the embroiderers and is ready to be carried aloft by the barons of the Cinque Ports when Edward's procession halts at Whitehall and make the rest of the way on foot, once he has donned his scarlet and ermine robes. It shall be a dreadfully long day for a boy of nine years, and Queen Jane is most determined to make sure that his welfare is catered for as far as is possible.

March has moved on into April, and we have been advised that their Serene Majesties Miguel and Maria shall arrive by the end of the first week of the month. The Coronation has now been formally announced as taking place three days after their hoped for arrival, and the finest apartments available have been re-furnished and hung with the best tapestries that are held in storage. All that is required now are the occupants who, to our great relief, arrive two days earlier than expected, aboard a large, gaily painted carrack named _Madre de Dios_ , and escorted, as they were when they departed, by the great galleon _São João Baptista,_ more commonly called _Botafogo_ by the men who sail her. They shall moor in the Pool of London tonight, and we shall greet the Royal Couple on the morrow.

* * *

Protocol dictates that his Majesty should not travel down to the harbour to meet a visiting dignitary - but instead remain at the Palace while the guest travels to him. He is, naturally, most disappointed that he cannot be present when Mary disembarks, but consents to allow those of us who lead his Government to do so. Hertford shall lead the deputation, with Northumberland and Shrewsbury, while Cromwell and I shall also be present. Only Hertford is aware that our presence has been requested by _La Reina_ , though she did not explain the reason for her request. As she is as aware of our duties to England as her mother and brother, however, I suspect that is why she did so.

The Royal couple are on deck as our procession draws to a halt alongside the Tower Wharves. As it is not possible to reach Whitehall by ship, thanks to London Bridge, we shall return by road, and the crowds are already thick, as people are most keen to see the child of their dear, late Queen Katherine.

A bridge has been set between the deck and the shore, that is wide enough for the pair to cross together. As they approach us, it is clear that Mary - or Maria as she is known to her people - has prospered greatly in terms of warmth and joy, for she is married to a husband who loves and respects her, and rules a Kingdom that does much the same. She is also now a mother of a much cherished son, and there are rumours that she has conceived again, though she shall certainly advise us one way or the other once we are safely indoors.

She was always a pretty child, and grew into a beautiful young woman. Now, thanks to her happiness, she is luminescent, clad in a magnificent gown the colour of burgundy wine, over a kirtle of thickly embroidered damask alive with colourful flowers worked in fine silks and dotted liberally with seed pearls. Beside her, Miguel is dressed in a doublet of matching hue, and his pride in his wife is evident upon his face as he sees the warm reception she is receiving from the people of London.

Once they are ashore, to the great cheers of the crowds, Hertford steps forth and bows low, " _Majestad_ , welcome to London."

"Thank you, my Lord. We are most glad to be welcomed to the shores of his Majesty the King." Like all men of his standing, King Miguel is highly educated, and his English has, not surprisingly, been improved through conversations with his wife - though she is as fluent in Spanish as he is in English and I suspect that they rarely speak anything else when they are at home.

We are all bowing deeply, and as I rise I note that the King has brought few men, and equally the Queen has few ladies - but then I see, to my astonishment, that one of them is most familiar to me. God - there was a time when she was nothing more than a thin little pot-washer and drudge in the Kitchens of Placentia - but now my former Apprentice Second has transformed into a great Court lady, and carries herself with the poise and grace of a Duchess. Perhaps she is one, now. I have no idea. She has seen us, I note, and there is the briefest flicker of a smile. We shall have much to discuss once we are back at Whitehall, I am sure. Then I see that her Majesty has also noticed my startled surprise, and her smile has become most amused. Now I know why she requested our presence.

The Royal couple greet us each in turn, and we bow deeply again as they do so. As she reaches me, Queen Maria smiles, "My Lord Rich. It is good to see you again. Are you well?"

"Most well, _Majestad_ , though I must say I am most grateful for your kind gift."

"I thought you might appreciate a surprise." she laughs, "But for your efforts, I suspect that I would not know the twin joys of marriage and motherhood. I have been most happy these six years past; and, while I am sad that I could not be present at my father's funeral, I am greatly pleased to attend the coronation of my brother."

"We shall make it a great ceremony, _Majestad,_ and your presence is most welcome."

"Thank you, my Lord."

I do not hear her conversation with Cromwell, though I imagine it covers much the same ground as hers with me - and she looks as pleased to see him, too. How remarkable it is to see it - there was a time when she hated us both.

I think Northumberland is most put out that the Queen chooses to spend far more time talking to Cromwell and I than with him - for he is of far higher rank. He, of course, is unaware that Queen Maria put aside her enmity towards us when Cromwell saved her stepmother, and asked her forgiveness for his failure to do the same for her Mother's marriage. That she should be more interested in conversing with a man she is supposed to despise than with a new man who has at least _some_ Catholic credentials is most confusing to him - another sign, I imagine, that he has a great deal of ground to make up if he wishes to stand beside us in the Royal Family's esteem.

All are soon mounted up again, the Royal visitors being aboard mounts carefully selected by Browne, reappointed as Master of the King's Horse, to be both placid, but suitably regal looking for their riders. I note that Molly has also learned to ride while she has been away, and does so with considerable skill. As she is present, I begin to wonder if their Silver Sword is also in the party - or has remained behind to protect the Court in their absence, as we shall look after them here. Cromwell has given no sign that there is another member of the Order in our procession, but then, I have never been initiated into any possible secret signs or gestures that they might share to identify one another. I wonder if they do that. Then I wonder why it has not occurred to me before.

Our journey to Whitehall is rather slow, for there are many who have gathered all along our route, and Queen Maria is understandably keen to recognise their devotion. The people never lost their love for her late Mother - it was an obstacle that Queen Anne was unable to overcome, until she stood so bravely upon the scaffold and finally won their respect and sympathy in the minutes before the swordsman severed her neck - and now they are most keen to welcome her daughter home. They intend to remain here for four weeks, and we have arranged for the Royal couple to take up formal residence in the Palace of St James while they are in England. They shall transfer there after the Coronation. I have no doubt that Edward shall delight in her company in the few remaining days before the Crown is placed upon his head.

As we travel, I note that Cromwell keeps looking upwards with a rather nervous expression, and I see that the skies above us are heavy and dark. The time for snow is long gone, so now the risk is to be drenched by heavy rain. As we have no means of keeping our guests dry, he is becoming concerned, and carefully steers Benedict forward to catch up with Hertford, who nods - I suspect that he is equally concerned, judging by the short interval between whispered comment and hasty nod.

Being used to living in southern Spain, it is likely that Mary has forgotten the altogether wetter world in which she used to reside, but she turns as Hertford approaches her, and she, too looks up - then nods before turning to her husband, who chuckles at the comment she must have made to him. Almost at once, we pick up the pace - though not to the point that the crowds are obliged to watch a hasty gallop - and manage to reach the mews and its arcaded walkways just as the first drops of a heavy April shower begin to strike the cobbles.

Having avoided a soaking, the King and Queen of Iberia are saved from being obliged to change out of the fine court clothes that they had donned prior to coming ashore, and we are thus ready to approach the Presence Chamber. I have no doubt that the requirements of protocol shall last less than five minutes once King Edward sets sight upon his sister, for they have been apart now for many years - their communications entirely by letter.

As they approach, Queen Jane and King Edward stand to greet them; and, as I suspected, Edward is quick to abandon formality, delightedly hugging his sister, who returns his affections with warmth. He is, after all, dreadfully young to be in such a position as this, and a family reunion could almost be guaranteed to demolish his attachment to protocol.

Greetings completed, the Royal family departs to the Privy Chamber, and the various visiting nobles begin to mingle with their counterparts, while others drift away. I suspect I should stay; but, as with the King and the Regent, I have a reunion of my own to organise, and thus I depart in search of John to arrange for victuals.

* * *

It is hard to believe that, when we first met the tall, richly dressed woman who sits at our table, she was thin, rather grubby and barely spoke above a whisper, but that frightened girl was like an acorn that falls in the autumn to emerge as an oak when the time is right, for Molly Garlant is both an accomplished Second, and the wife of a Marquess - furthermore, a Grandee - and thus is a highly respected noblewoman in the Court of the Joint Houses of Aviz and Trastamara. Ironically, she now outranks me, for I am but a Baron.

She laughs at my bow, "Come now, Mr Rich, I think our ranks as Seconds overcome those of nobility, do they not? As Dickon is awarded the rank of Grandee, he even has precedence over Dukes who are not of the same degree. You could say that I outrank even Mr Cromwell - though only on paper, I fear."

Hell, was she really an inarticulate, uneducated creature with straggled hair and chilblains once? Now she speaks as though she was born to her Noble title, for she holds one - Marquesa Margarita de Altamira. She must, of course, if she is to remain amongst the Queen's Ladies.

"Did Jackal travel with you?" I ask, pouring her a cup of claret.

"No - we considered it, but he felt it wiser that he remain at the Alhambra to keep an eye on a group of plotting lords who seem intent upon one of the more well respected Dukes at Court. We suspect that it is mere politicking, but I have not forgotten the machinations of Zaebos, even though I was not one of those he took into captivity as part of his plan. He did, however, ask me to pass some papers to you for consideration and storage - for our library is far less comprehensive than that of his Eminence. No one has compiled such a collection other than the Grand Archive at Milan - and I suspect it rivals that in size. He has also given me a letter to pass to Mr Cromwell - but he asked that its contents remain between them, so I do not know what it says."

I am a little irked by this discovery - but, as he always does, Cromwell shall certainly apprise me of the contents of the letter if he feels I should know it, "You can hand it to him personally, Molly, for he shall join us presently. I also think it appropriate that you refer to me by name, for - noble ranks aside - we are equals now, and it seems most unfair that I should address you by name, but you should not. Please call me Richard."

She smiles and nods, "I shall do so, Richard."

"How is Dickon?" I ask, for he is clearly not in the entourage.

She smiles fondly, "He is most uncomfortable at Court, so her Majesty granted us a large house and gardens within the walls of the old fortress near the Justice Gate that grants us proximity, but keeps us away from the halls of the Palace. Thus we live privately, while I am able to attend Court, and work alongside Jackal to protect it. Neither she nor His Majesty place any obligations upon him to attend their presence, and thus we are free to act as we need to in service of our Mission. He is much happier to be free of the formality of Court, and he asked me to send you his greetings."

"And your work with Jackal?" I prompt.

"His first instinct was to look upon me with dislike, for I was both a foreigner and a woman - until we began to work together and he found that your tuition had prepared me to a standard that eclipsed that of his previous second. You are respected across Europe, Richard - for you found the Fires, and your experience as a Second is considered to be an exemplar for all who follow you."

My eyes widen; I had not appreciated how far my reputation has travelled, nor that it was so celebrated, "That, I did not expect, Molly."

Her answer is stopped by the door opening, and Cromwell arrives, "Molly - forgive me, I was delayed by my obligations to the King and his guests."

She stands and drops in a most exquisite formal curtsey, "Good evening, Raven." She rises, then looks quite startled, for she - just like Wyatt before her - is surprised at how much he has aged since she saw him last.

He smiles, for he has noticed her shock, "Alas, Molly, the Raven is turning grey and his wings are stiffening, but he is still most keen to sup and to enjoy a glass of claret with good friends. I think John has better contacts in the wine cellars that James does, for he is able to secure much finer vintages for you, Richie."

Our conversation covers the same topics that Molly shared with me, and she hands the letter from Jackal over to Cromwell, who sets it aside without comment - much to my inquisitive frustration - before we adjourn to the fireside with cups of hippocras.

"Is all well at the Alhambra, Molly?"

"It is, Raven; between us, Jackal and I have identified the most likely causes of discord within his Majesty's Court, and thus we have established a plan to continually frustrate their endless shifting of alliances. One of the Dukes has been embezzling monies from the Royal coffers, and our discovery of his misdemeanours has obliged him to aid us in that respect to avoid losing his lands and titles. The evidence of his dishonesty is comprehensive and conclusive - and held ready to be handed to the appropriate authorities should he defy us. As it was achieved through work of the Spies, he does not know who his master is, and thus cannot plot against us."

"Was that your idea, or his?" Cromwell asks, keenly.

"It was mine, Raven." She admits, "I overheard his mistress boasting of his ill-gotten wealth in one of the water gardens."

He laughs, "That is truly devious, Second - you learned well from the plottings of the Tudor Court, I think."

"Most certainly," I agree, "I cannot claim any credit for this - for she did not learn such subtlety from me, I can assure you."

Our conversation moves onto more general matters that relate to the political and religious situations in our respective Kingdoms. It seems that Iberia is also infected by this strange lack of demonic incursions - and their assessment matches ours. Sooner or later, this internecine conflict in the demonic realms shall resolve - though it is quite remarkable that such a war should break out over a country so small and of such little account as England. Our value is, of course, in that we are surrounded by sea and thus a perfect stronghold from which to launch an invasion of the Old world, and then the newly discovered lands across the great Ocean to the west. So keen are those of higher estate in the world of demons to grasp that stronghold, that they are destroying each other with an efficiency that we could not hope to match.

The hour is late by the time Molly departs and returns to the quarters of the Palace that she would never have seen but for the discovery of her talent as a Second. She shall also be present at the Coronation - one of only a handful of women - a train-bearer for the Queen Maria. Until then however, we shall not see her, for our concern now is to ensure that Edward is crowned with such pomp that no one shall look upon him in fear for his youth - but shall instead be dazzled into seeing him as a King.

* * *

Wriothesley is looking rather pleased with himself, which suggests that he has managed an achievement that shall win him plaudits, "My Lord, I have secured a grant from Parliament for the final outstanding costs of the procession from the Tower."

To be fair, it is a fairly herculean success, for persuading Parliament to grant funds is always a challenging enterprise. It also means that those to whom we owe money shall at last be paid. I loathe leaving debts unmet.

"That is very good news, Mr Wriothesley, thank you for your diligent efforts. If there is no further business to be undertaken, perhaps you could dismiss the clerks for the remainder of the day - I am sure they shall be most keen to seek out suitable vantage points to watch tomorrow's procession, which they cannot do if they are trapped in the offices."

"I shall see to it at once, my Lord." He bows, and withdraws, though I can almost feel his envy - how much he would like to be seated in my place. That sense of enmity withdraws as he does, and I am most grateful to be left alone again.

Then I hear something that I do not expect - the beating of hoofs, percussive clatterings that draw nearer and nearer; until, to my absolute horror, the door of my office blasts in with a violent detonation, and suddenly flames are roaring and eating at the door-jambs. Without hesitation, I hurl myself to the ground to avoid the heat and debris, crying " _Lezviye k moyey ruke_!" as I fall. I cannot see now, but the sound of hoofbeats is louder still, and I know that the rider is at the door. Desperate to defend myself, I hold out my hand for my sword - but it does not come to me, and I scream out the summons a second time - again, to no avail.

The thud of heavily shod feet landing upon the ground as the unseen rider dismounts increases my panic as I call out again, and again - but still I am separated from my sword, and then I turn onto my back to see a figure encased entirely in blood-red armour standing above me, a hideous, two-handed blade held ready to drive down into me. I must be destroyed - for I can see all things…I have shadowsight…

Screaming out for Cromwell, as I have no means to save myself, I cower helplessly upon the floor as the anonymous knight raises his arms, and then the great sword drives downward - and all about me goes black.


	12. Crowned Head

Chapter Twelve

 _Crowned Head_

I open my eyes to find that I am seated upon a chair, my simarre discarded and my doublet open at the throat. My head is aching fiercely, and I feel rather feverish - and I raise my rather painful eyes to see that Doctor Wendy is leaning over me, Cromwell standing close behind him and looking worried.

The last thing that I remember was a knight clad in blood red armour standing over me while flames from outside began to consume the chamber - but now that I look around, there is no charring of the wood panelling, and no smell of smoke. I must have imagined the entire incident, then. Bemused, I close my eyes and sink back against the chair. What is happening to me?

And then I remember - that word again: _shadowsight_.

But what the hell is it? I have never heard of such a term and I cannot even begin to guess what it might be - an object? A phenomenon? Oh God - am I going mad?

"Forgive me Doctor, I think I overheated." I manage, eventually, for I can feel sunlight upon me and the room _is_ rather warm.

The Doctor sounds unconvinced if his mild grunt is anything to go by, and I open my eyes again to find that he does indeed look rather sceptical, "You have been unconscious for nearly twenty minutes, my Lord. That does not suggest to me that you fainted."

This startles me - twenty _minutes_? God above, no wonder Cromwell looks so worried. What must he have been thinking?

"I am already feeling quite recovered, Doctor," I lie, "there is no need for you to be fussing over me - I shall return to my quarters and rest awhile. The day is already growing quite late, so there is no harm in my departing the offices." I just want him gone - the only person I can really talk to about this is Cromwell. I suspect Doctor Wendy would not be at all impressed at my tale of fire and death, or a sword that would not come to me when I called.

I am grateful that he turns to look at Cromwell, for I shudder then with horror at the thought - my call to my blade did not summon it; and the discovery in the midst of that frightful dream filled me with such terror and abandonment that I could not think of any means of escape - instead merely cowering upon the floor and awaiting my fate. I cannot imagine that I could be so utterly helpless should that truly have happened; years ago, yes - when I first stepped into the role of a Second, but not now.

Cromwell can see that I am keen to dismiss the Doctor, and guides him to the door, "I shall summon his manservant and we shall remove him to his apartments, Doctor. I shall call you back if there is any change. Thank you for coming so swiftly."

Despite his protests, the Doctor submits to the gentle dismissal, and is soon gone. Immediately, Cromwell turns to me, "What truly happened, Richie?"

"I was struck again, Thomas. I know not how, from where, or why - but after Mr Wriothesley departed the chamber after advising me that he had managed to find monies to cover the final outstanding debts for the coronation pageants, I heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and then the door of my chamber blew in - and flames began to burn as though something had opened a passageway to the depths of hell. My immediate reaction was to fling myself to the ground and call my sword to me - but…but it did not come."

He hears the small catch in my voice as it falters, and nods, "That must have seemed quite terrifying to you."

I nod, and then continue, "I called again, and again and again - but still I had no weapon in my hand - and then I heard the rider that I had not yet seen dismount and approach - a tall, broad man encased in blood-red armour with a great two-handed sword held aloft. My sword had not come to me, and I was utterly helpless upon the floor, and thus I screamed out to you - but before you could possibly have reached me, the man raised up the weapon and drove it downwards into me. I felt nothing, but that was when I fell into silence."

Cromwell sighs, "I heard you cry out, which startled me - and as I came through the connecting passageway, I could hear your cries becoming more desperate - then you were shouting out to me and I began to run; but before I reached the door to your chamber, you screamed aloud and fell silent - and I found you insensible upon the floor behind your desk."

"It seemed so _real_ …" I am still very shaken by the experience, but then I remember something else, "But there was another thing - that man in armour is the source of the hatred that wishes to destroy me - for it said again that I see all things, for I have shadowsight."

"That is most worrying - for it is something that we cannot identify. Had we not been so overtaken by events I should have required you to return to Grant's Place to research this."

"I am equally to blame, Thomas. I had the opportunity to discuss the matter with Cecil, but did not do so. Each time the thought raised itself in my head, something happened to drive it away again. Even now, I have not the time to research it; not when we are so busy with work. As it is, these are but dreams, and already I am recovering, so are they truly such a threat to us? I promise you, as soon as the Coronation is done, I shall set to work on it."

There would once have been a time when Cromwell would have objected to such an argument from me - years ago when I had been a Second but a few months - perhaps even after a year or two - but now he does not, though he still looks rather doubtful, "I trust your judgement, Richie - but I ask you to think carefully of your own wellbeing as well as that of the Court. It is an error of judgement that I made when first we began to work together, and we both nearly paid for it with our lives."

John arrives, and between the two of them, they walk me back to my quarters. I am far more recovered now, and do not need them to support me, but their presence is most welcome - for, despite my protestations that I am unconcerned, I am not. I cannot fathom what is happening to me, and there is no time to research it, and so I must put it aside. I am grateful to do so, for fear of what I might find if I do investigate these visions and sensations - but at the same time, I am fearful that I might leave it so long that, by the time I do find out what is causing this, it shall be too late to remedy it.

"Did anyone else note my behaviour, Thomas?" I am rather worried now that my shouting might have alerted others.

"No one came to your door other than I, Richie; so I think your cries went unheard by any other."

Thank God for that, "Allow me a night's rest, Thomas; I am sure I shall be recovered by morning." I am quite surprised to find that I am actually rather tired out, and would welcome my bed.

Cromwell nods, "Then I shall leave you in peace tonight, my friend. The coronation is but two days away, and I fear tomorrow shall be most busy uncovering all kinds of errors and oversights that shall need to be hastily corrected to prevent all our plans from being hurled awry."

That makes me laugh, "So true, Thomas. I shall see you on the morrow."

* * *

The man's name is Phineas Brownstone, or at least, that is what he claims his name to be, and his expression is most discontented, "How am I supposed to depict the glorious lineage of our new King and his Regent when I have not sufficient rope to lower a phoenix to the earth?"

Dear God, I dread to imagine what his tableau shall portray. Behind him, the stage - set upon a wooden platform raised two feet above the roughly cobbled paving at the corner of Fleet Street and Shoe Lane - is draped with a most extraordinary array of decorative fabrics depicting the roses and hawthorn of the Tudors. Above is a startlingly complex construction of wood, pulleys and ropes that are clearly incomplete, and I wonder what on earth this extraordinarily vocal man is intending to portray.

I slept well last night, and was untroubled by dreams - which is perhaps as well given the problems that are being flung in my direction, "My Lord, I beg you, where can I find more rope? How shall it be paid for? None of the ships' masters have any that is not filthy with tar!"

"Are there no chandlers open, Mr Brownstone?" I venture, rather tentatively, for I am not sure whether I wish to provoke a tantrum that shall embarrass us both even more.

"None that shall grant me rope without coin to pay for it." He snaps back, crossly - then remembers his manners, "My Lord."

It is clear that there is only one way to resolve the impasse, and I burrow into my scrip for a sovereign, "Take this. If this is not sufficient, advise me and I shall make up any difference."

"Yes, my Lord." He looks altogether more pleased, though he manages not to be too overt about snatching the coin.

"I expect a receipt, Mr Brownstone - if you do not make account to me, I can arrange an invitation for you to the prison at Newgate."

 _That_ makes the impact I have so far failed to achieve, and he visibly pales, before nodding, "Yes, my Lord."

"Was that not rather cruel, my Lord?" Paget asks, who has come across to join us, having dealt with a small group of children who are to be used in another tableau further east on Ludgate Hill, and has overheard the last of the exchange, "Or do you truly mean to have him imprisoned if he does not account for the rope?"

"Over such a trifle? God no, Mr Paget. But I must confess to a certain sense of satisfaction at silencing him - for he has been most annoying. He has been following me about and bothering me over his ridiculous charade for nearly three hours - and I have other things to see to. Why he should be so utterly consumed by his own project at the expense of the greater whole, I cannot fathom. Perhaps it is in the nature of actors."

"Perhaps, my Lord." Paget grins, "I think he is the last matter of concern for us, however. Most of the pageants are prepared for the morrow - but then, they are all considerably less complex in execution than this one. What does it represent?"

"Christ alone knows, Mr Paget," I admit, "I suspect that there shall be a great deal of symbolism involved - but what it shall signify remains a mystery. Perhaps it shall resolve itself once sufficient rope is procured."

I wish that some of these pageants were less intent upon symbolism about boy kings, the creation of the New Religion and the wisdom of dynastic descent - for Edward is a child and does not deserve to be preached at so. There is one, however, that intrigues me: a man who balances and walks upon a suspended rope, and I rather wish I was further back in the procession so that I could see his performance when the King passes him. Perhaps someone shall make note of it and describe it to me afterwards.

It shall, however, be a dreadfully long day for the King - and he shall have little opportunity for rest. At least his mother shall be at his side; for, once he is crowned, we have added an additional ceremony to formally confirm Queen Jane as Regent. If people are assured that she is God's chosen to govern in her child's stead until he reaches his majority, then we shall have less trouble from those who might wish to overrule her. Otherwise, we have sat down together with Cranmer to find as many ways to truncate the ceremony as possible - though we have served only to bring the event's length from twelve hours to seven.

By the time the day draws to a close, the rope has been procured and added to the web of pulleys and flies that shall realise Mr Brownstone's seemingly deranged dream, and a rather tattered receipt has been handed to me - along with several shillings, florins and pennies in change. Perhaps I should threaten tradesmen with Newgate more often if doing so inspires such unexpected honesty in their financial dealings with me.

Hertford has escorted the King to his apartments in the Tower, ready for tomorrow's procession, and most of those who shall participate have also begun to assemble in the vicinity, taking up whatever rooms they can hire. As it is more convenient for us to be at this end of the City, Cromwell has returned home to Austin Friars, along with a large number of guests additional to me, as the great House can easily accommodate so many. Thus we make a most august group of diners as we seat ourselves in the large Hall to sup, while a small consort of players entertains us upon viols as we eat.

By the time darkness has fallen, and guests are beginning to retire, I wander outside onto a terrace that overlooks the enormous garden to find Cromwell sitting in a comfortable chair and looking out across the space that has been lit with flares to entertain a few hardy souls who are out walking amongst the parterre beds, "I love this place." He says, quietly, as I seat myself on the low parapet opposite him, "I have few regrets in this life beyond those that were imposed upon me by the Mission. One of them is that I could not spend as much time here as I should have liked."

I can see it - a sense of peace that is rarely present in him. Normally he is too busy, or too concerned with politics; but here he is far from the cares of his mission or his work, and can rest in to a degree that is normally denied him. Today he can enjoy that moment of calm - for tomorrow shall begin the true task of holding a Kingdom together until a boy is old enough to rule it.

* * *

Dawn is breaking as we begin to assemble in the wide courts that lead down to the Tower Wharves. Normally the space is busy with market stalls, hawkers and traders, but today all have been cleared and given a day's holiday, and instead the place bustles with the skill and fur-clad bodies of the wealthy and high-born.

Higher up, at the top of the hill, stands the site of the scaffold, though there is no structure there today. I view that place with a shudder, for I have acted to send men to that place - and Cromwell almost found himself obliged to stand there too. It has no sense of horror for me on a personal level; I was not destined to end my life there, after all; the King had decreed that I be sent to Tyburn. Thank God he saw through the deception that brought us to such danger.

If Cromwell is discomfited by that place, he does not show it - for he is far too busy. Between them, he and Paget are busily working with a large squadron of ushers who shall ensure that all are in their proper place, and that we shall leave on time. It shall not be possible for his Majesty to be held at each pageant for too long, so care has been taken to make them all very short in length, but nonetheless, we do not anticipate reaching Whitehall, where the King shall don his red and ermine robes to continue to the Abbey church upon foot, until early afternoon. Hertford has, at his sister's insistence, ensured that there shall be a small meal awaiting him there, for it would not do for the King to faint from hunger in the midst of his own coronation. We, on the other hand, shall have to either provide for ourselves, or await the enormous Coronation feast that shall be held in the great hall at Westminster Palace. Consequently, we who were hosted at Austin Friars overnight were encouraged to eat a goodly amount this morning before we departed.

Despite my efforts to avoid it, I have been obliged to ride alongside van der Delft in the procession. Of all the diplomats at court, he is by far the most dull, and I had hoped to be accompanied by the Milanese Ambassador, a magnificently flamboyant man who delights in foolish gossip and who would have been a most entertaining companion. Unfortunately, however, Northumberland pushed for him to be paired with his son.

I am dressed in tawny and gold today, and even Cromwell has accepted that he must not wear black, so he is garbed in garments of a fine dark blue accented with embroidery in silver thread embellished with pearls - which he is now permitted to wear thanks to his rank as an Earl. I am still most unused to the red and ermine robe that I shall wear once we process to the Abbey, for we are - as nobles - obliged to do so. I am not, however, obliged to wear a coronet, for that privilege is granted only to nobles of the rank of earl, or higher. I hope I shall not laugh at the sight of Cromwell when he dons his.

The trumpeters blast out a great fanfare as the great palace clock in the tower strikes the hour of nine - and the procession begins to move. As those ahead of us are on foot, our own progress shall be at a slow pace which shall no doubt frustrate the crowds who grow bored with us and long to see their new King.

The pageants are to be performed as the King approaches them, so we see nothing of the work that has gone into preparing them. Instead, I move at a slow plod that is made all the slower for van der Delft's inability to be even remotely interesting. I have never left England, so it interests me to hear of life in other Cities of Europe - but it seems to me that Antwerp must be the dullest, most pedestrian town in the world, if the Ambassador is to be believed. What of its architecture? Does it have a castle? What does its Cathedral look like? I wish that he would tell me, but instead he drones on endlessly about wool exports and the jewel trade and I must hold my tongue for fear of sparking a diplomatic incident by shouting at him to stop talking at me. Worse, behind me I can hear John Dudley chuckling at whatever he is being told by his companion, and I allow myself a sense of rather childish resentment that Northumberland stole my entertainment from me.

There is, however, a real sense of joy in the streets - for the sun is bright, the air warm and a new King is to be crowned today. That Edward is so different from his father is helpful, for the Kingdom is in the most dire financial straits, and we must curb the extravagances that his father practised, and begin work on repaying what debts we can, and establishing at least some sense of propriety with the royal purse. Queen Jane is as concerned to make such amends to our creditors as we are, so at least we are spared some resistance. It is, after all, not truly proper that the King has less money at his disposal than his Lords. I suspect that even I am wealthier than my sovereign Lord.

Gradually, we make our slow way past Whitefriars, and Blackfriars, and are finally on the Strand. From here we shall approach Charing Cross, and then turn onto the road to Whitehall. By now the sun is at its zenith; and, while I am sure that his Majesty is too entranced by the entertainments to notice if he is hungry, my own stomach is growling most persistently.

Our arrival at the Palace is most welcome to me, as I can finally abandon van der Delft. He shall make his way across to the Abbey to be amongst the congregation with the other foreign diplomats. Only their Majesties Miguel and Maria shall be present in the Quire, for we have set two chairs together opposite those of Queen Jane, Prince Hal and the Lady Elizabeth, and they shall sit beneath their canopy of estate, for they brought it with them - thus saving us the trouble of frantically attempting to have one made in time.

As the King shall not reach the palace for another hour, I have ample time to hasten to my chambers, where John has an appropriate change of clothes for me. While I am not required to wear a coronet, I shall instead have a red cap, to match the fine red robes trimmed with ermine that my rank demands. To my astonishment, and great relief, he has also assembled a light meal and a flagon of small ale, though I am hard put not to bolt the victuals; the last thing I wish for is to pay for such foolishness with indigestion.

Thus fed, and dressed in garments that look quite ridiculous on me, I return to the Hall, where we are all gathering again to await the royal party. Cromwell is already present, attempting to stand with that tall dignity at which he is so adept, despite feeling most embarrassed in such bright robes, and holding a coronet in his hand. Had he been more intent upon the accumulation of power for himself, then this would have been the height of his ambitions - but he has a mission to fulfil, and this sort of nonsense is instead a rather tiresome incidental.

"I loathe hats." He admits, examining the fine coronet with a sigh, "If it were not a requirement to wear one, then I would most certainly not do so. And this…" he lifts it, "I am sure that I never imagined a time when I might have been obliged to put a gold circlet upon my head. The only consolation is that I shall only be required to do so on this day - and only then when his Majesty is crowned. After that, it can be put away again, and I shall be most glad for it."

"Which makes you unique in this gathering then, Thomas." I smile at him, "For most are very proud to wear garb that places their status upon such open display."

"Perhaps - but then, the wearing of bright colours when I hunt shall do no more than alert all those I seek to my presence." He smiles back, "Come, Richie - I think I hear the arrival of the royal party. They are later than I hoped, so his Majesty shall not have much time to eat and change if we are to leave according to Lord Hertford's most carefully arranged schedule."

"I should like to see him tell a King to hurry."

* * *

The walk to the Abbey is not long, but I imagine we must make a remarkably outlandish sight to those around us. Those who shall not accompany the King into the Crossing to witness his coronation and pay homage have already departed to the great church, but the rest of us walk in a long column, those of us who are on the Council, and the higher Nobles, to the fore. The Lady Elizabeth, who was not obliged to travel in the procession, is also present. She holds no noble rank in her own right, but leads the most high-born ladies, who are carrying the train of the Queen Regent. Prince Hal, accompanied by the men of his household, shall follow behind the King and Queen of Iberia as they follow the Regent.

Once inside, I am grateful to be granted a seat in the Quire, for the most highly placed courtiers are placed so, and shall thus have a fine view of the ceremony, that shall take place in the crossing beyond - a large space before the High Altar, where already the regalia has been set. Cranmer is in quite magnificent vestments, but he waits at the door for the King to arrive, in order to take him through to another chapel where he shall be prepared to be dressed in his coronation attire, and anointed with holy oil from the golden Eagle ampulla that some claim the Virgin gave to St Thomas of Canterbury.

As a Baron, I should be seated far further away than I am, but I am the Lord Privy Seal, and that grants me precedence as a holder of one of the great five Offices of the Kingdom. I suspect this is why I have been given that red cap, as all around me shall don their coronets - but I do not have one.

We know that the King is arriving as the Gentlemen and Children of the Chapel Royal begin to sing one of the newly composed motets. The Queen Regent is already seated, Hal and Elizabeth beside her, while King Miguel and Queen Maria sit opposite. Again, I am struck by the kindness of Queen Jane's welcome to Elizabeth - for she could so easily have been sent from Court to live in a household far from the Palaces, as she has been eclipsed by two male heirs borne by the woman who replaced her mother. Perhaps, had she been more of a threat to their rule, that might have happened; but I am glad that we shall never know.

Being so small, Edward is obliged to use a step to reach the seat of the great Coronation Chair that all Kings have used since the first Edward built it to enclose that stone from Scotland - Scone, I think - and must also seat himself upon two cushions in order to be tall enough to be seen. He would have been anointed wearing a shift, but there are small stains at the relevant points upon his garments to show where it was done.

There is one section of the service that has changed significantly - a statement in the coronation oath that reformation shall now be enabled by Royal Prerogative. I am sure I see Miguel wince at this, but as he shall be returning to a Kingdom where such matters remain entirely Catholic, he shows no further discomfort. The explanation for such a change, espoused by Cranmer in his sermon, probably makes no difference to their position, but as he then goes on to liken Edward to Josiah, the boy-king of Judah that came to his crown at the age of eight, then destroyed idolatrous practices that had overtaken the people of Israel and restored them wholly to the worship of God, perhaps Miguel's competence in the arts of diplomacy is being demonstrated as more than mere competence and is elevated instead to a great talent. Then again, as Cromwell said when King Henry agreed to allow his eldest daughter to be married according to the Roman rite, he was not perturbed, for she was taking it back to Spain with her. From what Molly has told me, Miguel is remarkably tolerant within his own Kingdom, and seems to have taught Mary that same kindness - which has not been betrayed, thank God. Given the Queen's beliefs, there is hope that there shall at least be something akin to tolerance of both branches of faith within the new Church of England, too. The last thing even Cromwell would wish to see upon the throne is a religious bigot.

Now at last, the moment is come - and Cranmer sets the great Crown of St Edward upon the King's head as those with coronets - or caps - don theirs at the same time, crying out 'God Save the King' three times. Or, at least, he holds it in place, for it is far too large and heavy to rest there. Then it is exchanged for the imperial crown, which is equally problematic - and treated in the same manner, before finally being replaced by a crown made for the King himself, which is both small and light enough to remain upon his head. To this is added the orb and sceptre, as well as the staff of St Edward and the Royal Spurs. This, too, is something of a balancing act, given the size of Edward's hands.

While he is now Crowned, the ceremony is still not over, as the poor child is obliged to sit and accept the homage of the nobility. Each of us, one by one, shall approach him to kiss his left cheek - and there are a lot of us. As if that were not enough, he still has to perform a last ceremony to confirm his mother's Regency - setting that same crown that his father had had made for her own Coronation back upon her head.

I cannot see back to where Elizabeth and the younger Henry are sitting, but I hope that Hal is not envious of his brother's elevation, for while it is hard to be a prince, it is harder still to be a King. From what I have learned of him, the younger of the boys is as impulsive and rash as Thomas Seymour is in comparison to Hertford. The risk of jealousy shall always be there, and I fervently hope that the Queen shall take care to quell it.

As I approach him, Queen Jane sits slightly behind and to one side, awaiting her turn to be crowned, and it is obvious that the King is very tired, but still he sits up straight, and behaves royally - a great feat of endurance for one so young. I bow to him, and kiss his cheek as all have before me, and still more shall when I have returned to my seat, and my determination to serve this young man as faithfully as I served his father seems renewed. This young man needs us to give the best of ourselves to him, in order to ensure that he gives the best of himself to England.

* * *

Despite the light meal that John was able to secure for me when we stopped at Whitehall, a long time has passed since then, and I am almost faint with gratitude at the sight of the first remove as we seat ourselves in the Hall at Westminster to enjoy the Coronation feast. As is traditional, Hertford, in his role as Earl Marshal of England, oversees order between the tables on horseback, while one of the Dymoke family enters, also on horseback, and - as the King's Champion - challenges all who might wish to do so to impugn the King's title on pain of death. It is a rather ridiculous tradition, perhaps, but it is one that the Dymoke family guards quite jealously, as they have no other claim to greatness.

Cromwell is seated beside me, and looks most relieved, "I was most put out to be sat next to Lord Dacre in the Abbey, Richie. The man has no intelligence, and reeked like a privy in the highest heat of summer. I think perhaps that our Lord of Northumberland has no other means to slight me - for it was his task to arrange how we were seated."

"Ah. I wondered why there was such a large stretch of bench either side of him across on that table."

"Believe me, he would kill the most ravenous of appetites. God above, I am famished; now to find out if the victuals are worth the price we paid for them."

The noise of conversation is all but ear-splitting, for we have been obliged to be quiet and orderly throughout the course of a long day, and people are most keen to abandon what formality they can. The citizens of London have provided the staff who shall serve the King and his table, and they are all Aldermen who are, to a man, most proud to be granted such a privilege - though I suspect the one that dropped a great flagon of wine upon the floor mere feet from the King feared for his head until he remembered that the King he was serving was not Henry. None of the flood of claret reached Edward's garments, and he handed the fearful man a coin of sufficient value to make him fall to his knees - which was most unfortunate given that he was kneeling in the pool of wine.

Above us, the Minstrels are playing a most jaunty tune, though only those closest to their gallery can truly hear them. Instead, people talk amongst themselves, gorge upon endless supplies of meats, game and fishes, great tureens of frumenty, spiced breads and endless piles of dried fruits and nuts, and down gallons of wine. Having been obliged to imbibe neither food nor drink for most of the day, the degree of drunkenness is quite startling, and at least one person has already tottered away from the tables to bend over at the side of the hall. Fortunately none have done so on this side.

The sheer amount of victuals is almost impossible to imagine - but we are not expected to eat it all, for what is left shall be given to the poor who are already gathering outside the palace in hopes of securing a good meal. That said, most people seem quite determined to try, and the resulting collapse in decorum is quite embarrassing - particularly coupled with the excessive consumption of alcohol.

In deference to his tender years, the King departs quite early, to the accompaniment of brazen trumpets and loud declamations of 'God Save the King!'. Jane, naturally, is as keen to remove him from the encroaching debauchery as she is to ensure that he is granted sufficient rest, and I imagine she is most glad to have escaped the growing rumpus. I am considering doing much the same, and I can see that Cromwell is also becoming restless. While he does enjoy court entertainments, he is less keen to watch fellow courtiers making fools of themselves, and the departure of the King is as good an excuse as any to make our own way back to Whitehall.

The walk back from Westminster to the Palace is not long, but it is pleasant, for people are lighting fireworks and bonfires all across the City, which look most delightful as we follow the river-walk back to a small gate that shall lead into one of the Privy Gardens. I think it is moments such as these that I live for - contentment, a sense of accomplishment while the city celebrates good times. And with my dearest friend at my side. In this life, what more can a man hope for?

The sky above us is clear, and alive with stars. I find, however, that I cannot look up at them too long without becoming dizzy, for in my dismay at the amount of wine being drunk, I had forgotten to watch over how much I had emptied down my own throat, and I have overindulged rather more than I intended to. At least I am not obliged to lean over the parapet and puke into the river; though, if I had, it would not be the first time.

"Two days of jousts and feasting, Richie." Cromwell smiles as he sees my slight loss of balance, "Are you sure that you can maintain the pace?"

"Absolutely not, Thomas." I admit, "Therefore I shall behave with far greater decorum upon the morrow - though I think most shall, for they shall be too beaten down by their overindulgence to do anything else."

He nods, and smiles, but then looks rather pensive, "And then it begins." He sighs, "A new battle for England. Perhaps we have exchanged one Mission for another."

"Do you think we shall be besieged so soon?" I ask him, worriedly.

"Not immediately - but I am concerned, for there are rumours that some wish to court Prince Hal. As he is growing older, he is beginning to show signs that he is most susceptible to flattery - and he is not a little envious of his brother's elevation over him."

Ah - it seems that I am not the only one to have wondered whether all of this might be affecting him, "He is still young - for he is no more than a child himself. Perhaps a few years of watching his elder brother's travails as he learns to rule shall temper that. Besides, I have no doubt that Queen Jane shall ensure he is granted plenty of royal activity. He would not be the first prince to act as a diplomat, after all. Once he sees the disaster that could be wrought through war, perhaps he shall learn the disadvantages of bellicosity." I am rather embarrassed at the number of attempts I require to finish that sentence. God, I am more drunk than I thought.

Cromwell laughs, "Indeed so, Richie. Indeed so. Let us work to provide our new King with the counsel he needs and deserves. He is, I am told, a most intelligent youth, and certainly we have seen his maturity already. Her Majesty is keen to provide him with all the tuition necessary to grant him the strength and wisdom to rule well - and we must do likewise in terms of diplomacy and negotiation. Between us, I am sure he shall grow into a great King in his own right. That is certainly my hope and intention."

"And mine." I add stoutly, if a little drunkenly. Thank Christ we are not going to hunt tonight.

"To bed with you, Mr Rich." Cromwell says, cheerfully, "While the Court plays tomorrow, we shall see about formulating some ideas to aid our new King as he learns the business of ruling. I think it shall be a more worthwhile pursuit than watching men charge at each other upon horses, and certainly it shall be quieter. I think you shall welcome that come the morning."

I sigh to myself, and nod. For I have no doubt that he is right.


	13. Progress

Chapter Thirteen

 _Progress_

The celebrations are at an end, and now we must return to work. The last two days have been spent watching jousts and masques, and eating almost unfeasible amounts of victuals. Fortunately, the King is pleased to adhere to tradition, and all that remains is donated to the poor - but the Regent is intent that the Royal Court must tighten its collective belt, for we have not the funds to support the degree of extravagance that his father demanded. Being used to a rather simpler existence - albeit one liberally supplied with all that he could possibly want - King Edward seems to be prepared to accept such a regime, though we have yet to test that resolve in a Council meeting.

King Miguel and Queen Maria are to depart back to their Kingdom in another two days, and so they are spending this afternoon riding in the Park of St James with the King and Hertford, while Cromwell and I ride in their wake, our weapons concealed. It is perhaps a mark of how we are trusted that they have sought our protection and not that of the Royal Guard, though the expression upon Northumberland's face as we were asked to accompany the Royal family with no explanation on the part of the Regent was quite a sight to behold.

The Royals ahead of us are happily engaged in conversation, and are not discussing matters of religion, I note. Perhaps it is best that way - certainly we have no wish to revive the difficulties that ensued when Henry decided that he would no longer accept the authority of the Pope over his own. Instead, Edward is enthusiastically telling Miguel about Lancelot, and the pair discuss the best means of training a falcon of such power as a Gyr, while Mary makes small talk with Hertford. Such a change - though they avoid mentioning that greatest stumbling block, for Somerset is a reformer, while Mary is anything but.

As we follow them, I note that Cromwell looks rather concerned, "What is it?"

"Northumberland." he sighs, "He is watching me most carefully, and I think he is quite determined to remove me from my position of influence if he can, for he seeks it for himself."

"If he thinks he can do that, then he is a fool, Thomas; he cannot hope to demonstrate that he is worthy of trust to the degree that you have - for he is both too new at the Council Table, and utterly unaware of all that we have done to earn that faith - for if he knew, he would realise that he cannot hope to match it."

"Perhaps - but I was forced to learn through harsh experience that others can undermine my place at court, Richie; and I do not wish to endure that again. Not at my age." He adds, with a slight smile.

"Then we shall await his move, and counter it with moves of our own." I muse, "For what else can we do? If you are particularly concerned at what he might do, then I shall advise the spies to watch him. Perhaps, had we been more astute to the behaviour of Campofregoso, and used the resources available to us, we might not have been caught as we were."

Cromwell nods in agreement, "I am grateful that the discussions ahead are neutral." He adds, in a much smaller voice, "I have no doubt that Mary hopes very much that Edward shall bring England back to the Pope - but I think that we have crossed that threshold and shall not return. Edward has been taught that he is the head of the Church in England, and thus I fear that he shall not relinquish that. Regardless of his calmer temperament - he is still male. I have never known any man willingly give up authority to another."

"Well, that we shall see - though I hope that we shall not see any more people punished for following the wrong faith." I add, for I am hardly in a position to speak ill of those who cleave to a faith absolutely. My religious convictions have always followed that of the majority - though I am in no way an unbeliever, for I have been privileged to feel the extraordinary power of the Almighty.

We make our way under a stand of trees and pause there, as Hertford has organised a meal, and the tables and chairs are set beneath the spreading leaves, dappled with cool shade, for the sun has become remarkably warm. To our surprise, for we consider ourselves to be no more than guards, places are set for us, too.

"Tell us of your adventures, my Lord Cromwell," King Miguel says, reaching for his cup of claret, "I am told that you are the foremost Silver Sword in the history of the Order." He smiles then at Cromwell's startled expression, "Maria and I have no secrets, my Lord. I am aware of the Order, and of Jackal. I consider Lady Altamira to be my wife's closest confidante and protector - and both ladies recall your exploits with fascination."

"Then you are a rare ruler, Majesty, for I am not aware that any of your fellow Princes are aware of the Order as her Majesty, and your Majesties are."

"Perhaps - but I suspect that we who wear crowns are all the more grateful for those of you who work to protect us from infernal harm. I understand that your journey to become what you are has been quite remarkable."

I cannot hide my amused smile as Cromwell is obliged, yet again, to tell his story to someone else. How can it be that the Order was once a secret in England? It seems that everyone knows about it these days.

"A remarkable journey, my Lord." Miguel approves, as Cromwell completes the tale, "I fear you must be concerned that your secret is no secret - but I assure you that none know of it in the Alhambra but me, Maria, Lady Altamira and Jackal himself. I am well aware of the need for absolute secrecy to protect all that you do."

"Forgive me, Majesty. I did not intend to sound critical of your knowledge of our mission. For most of my service, I have acted secretly - and after Wolsey's death, I was entirely alone until Richard agreed to become my Second. It was a most foolish state of affairs upon my part, for a path such as mine should not be travelled so. The presence of a demoness such as Lamashtu required the creation of what feels like something of an army to combat her - and so we were joined by the late Sir Thomas Wyatt, and then her Majesty. Even Wolsey himself remains in Purgatory, tasked with aiding us in our work. That we had such support aided us at our darkest hour - for we had the assistance of her Majesty, Lady Rochford and my Lord of Hertford."

Miguel nods, "I am grateful that such a group was established, for it saved us all from a dread slavery and horror of the worst kind; but I am also grateful that I know that my own Court is also protected. Your secret is safe with me - that I assure you."

"I thank you, your Majesty. You also have my assurance that, should we know of any danger that might face your Kingdom that appears within ours, you shall know of it."

"Come now, my beloved," Mary smiles, "Let us not talk of business - for we are here to dine together and enjoy pleasant conversation, are we not?"

He smiles, and inclines his head to her.

"I believe that you have plans, do you not, my Brother?" Mary turns to Edward, who looks most pleased.

"I do indeed, sister. You already know of them, Uncle, but my Lords of Essex and Leighs do not."

I lean forward, and I note that Cromwell does the same.

"I shall elevate my Uncle to a Dukedom, my Lords, but I would be most pleased to do likewise to you - if you are content for me to do so?"

God above, he is asking our permission to grant us additional honours? But then I see the look upon Cromwell's face, and I realise that he was wise to do so - for it is clear that the Earl has no wish to be raised even higher.

"Majesty," he says, quietly, "I cannot begin to find words that truly reflect my gratitude for your kindness in offering to elevate me - but I hope you shall not be too disappointed if I beg you not to do so, for to be elevated even further shall inspire only enmity amongst the rest of the Council."

"But you deserve it!" Edward protests, for he is, after all, still a child and does not see the endless shades of grey in such matters as these.

"The fact that you feel that I do is reward enough, Majesty. Perhaps that sounds trite - but it is so. I served your father, and your mother, to the best of my ability, and I intend to serve you equally. That you feel me worthy of a Dukedom is something for which I am more grateful than you can know."

"Then I shall not do so," the young King looks most disappointed, "but if I cannot grant you such a reward as an elevation in the Peerage, allow me to praise you before all of the Court for your service and diligence. I should feel most churlish if I did not do so, for her Majesty tells me that you saved my life when I was born, and hers. I have never had the opportunity to do so - but I give you my solemn promise that I shall not speak of that which must be kept hidden."

And thus the matter is dropped - and I feel an embarrassing stab of disappointment, for I am sure that Edward intended to award us both new peerages, and I might have been raised to the rank of Viscount. But now, I shall not be. I can understand why - for Cromwell is right; we cannot afford to inspire even more enmity from those around us at the Council table. Even as I tell myself this, I am engaged in a rather desperate struggle to conceal that disappointment, for I have no wish to look so childish in front of my King.

Instead, I decide to look forward to Northumberland's certain disgruntlement when he finds that he is no longer the only Duke at the Council table.

* * *

I think I have regained my equilibrium by mid-afternoon, as we gather to watch King Edward raise his uncle to a Dukedom. It is clear from Northumberland's face that he is not at all pleased at what is about to happen, but he can do nothing about it. Instead, he watches as the young King invests Edward Seymour as the First Duke of Somerset, and the brother of the Queen Regent bows deeply, accepting the honour with a most fine speech.

A lot of people are watching Cromwell and I to see if we are to be invested, or are disappointed not to be. They do not know that we have already been made aware - but that we have asked not to be; or, at least, Cromwell has. One face that seems particularly keen upon matters is the younger brother of the newly invested Duke. Thomas Seymour has always been impetuous, and eager for advancement; but lacks Somerset's cool head and piercing intellect. Failing to have the patience to play the long game, he is keen to gain that which his brother has - particularly wealth and power - but seems unwilling to put in the work and diligence that earns them. He is not talentless - far from it, in fact - but his determination to accumulate reward as fast as he can without proving himself worthy to receive such rewards has left him far behind. It is, I fear, the perennial problem for younger sons; that is why I was so determined to make a name for myself at Court when I arrived - and quite possibly what drove me to act as I did in order to advance my career, as I was not the eldest son, and thus would not inherit what property my family held at the time. Consequently, I had no other means of establishing myself. Until, of course, I became the Second to a Silver Sword and my life was never the same again.

Seated upon his throne, under his canopy of Estate and surrounded by his family, King Edward addresses the assembly, though he is not strong enough yet to raise his voice to a degree that he can be heard as his father could, "I thank you all for your loyalty and friendship to me in the tender years of my reign. To the men of my Council, I am truly grateful for your agreement to serve me as you served my late Lord and father, Henry the Eighth. To my Lords of Essex and Leighs, in particular, I fear that the burden of governance shall be most heavy - but I know that there are no other men in the Kingdom who can carry it as you can. I know that I am but a child, and so I turn to my beloved mother, her Majesty the Queen Regent, to stand beside me and teach me to rule. Please - enjoy the evening." He smiles as we bow to him, a smile that widens at the strains of a joyful tune from the musicians in the Gallery above us.

"Forgive me, Richie," Cromwell says, quietly, as we withdraw to the sides of the hall to make room for the dancers and seat ourselves upon a bench, "In declining the offered Dukedom, it was not my intention to leave you without an honour from his Majesty - if I gave that impression, then I am sorry, for it left you without a deserved reward."

"There is nothing to forgive, Thomas." I sigh, "I shall admit to a sense of disappointment at the realisation that there would be no additional honour for me - but I know, equally, that you are right. We are hated quite enough as it is, as you said - and to inspire greater enmity does us no favours at all. I should be grateful for that which I have, for it is plentiful." I pause, and snort with mild amusement, "Though I must confess, the man that I was before I became your Second would almost certainly be hating you at this moment."

Cromwell chuckles at my comment "Indeed - though I think that there is one amongst us who is not at all pleased to have been ignored in the presentations of peerages, in much the way you claim that you would have done had you not been my Second." He nods towards a heated, albeit quiet, contretemps between the Seymour Brothers. The younger could not be more obviously jealous of the elder - but I note that Queen Jane has deftly distracted Edward from it by engaging him in conversation alongside King Miguel.

"Should we intervene?" I ask, doubtfully, for I should very much rather not.

"Only if it gets out of hand, I think." Cromwell answers, "Otherwise, I think that we shall inflame matters rather than calm them."

"Thank God for that. It is never wise to get between squabbling brothers."

At length, Thomas Seymour snaps something vicious, turns upon his heel and stalks from the hall, leaving his brother looking rather disgruntled. Hastily rearranging his features, he smiles, and begins to circulate as though nothing has happened, "He is rather good at it, is he not?" Cromwell smiles, then looks to the left slightly, "Ah, Northumberland has noticed, and he looks rather smug."

"He has no younger brother at Court, thus he is fortunate to have no rival."

"True - but he has three sons here, does he not? And I have no doubt that the potential for rivalry could emerge there if he does not manage them carefully. While it is good to have many sons to carry on the line, it is hard for those who are not to inherit."

"As I know well - being a second son myself." I pause, "I think I might consider keeping a watch upon the younger Seymour - for he is not at all pleased to be so left behind in his elder brother's wake."

"Then he is a fool." Cromwell says, sagely, "For in spite of his belief that he has been poorly served, he has gained much from his proximity to the Throne in both wealth and power - for is he not Master General of the Ordnance and Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports? And yet he cannot abide to have less than his Brother."

"He has been less fortunate in one respect, my Lord." I remind him, "For he did not discover a new purpose in his life as I did. But for that, then I have no doubt that I would have betrayed other men of the Council, and sent them to the block to save my own head. Perhaps I might even have had that same fate visited upon me - and I would have stood upon the scaffold - for I have no doubt that I was not the most devious of men at that Council table. Sooner or later someone would have acted to destroy me as I would have destroyed others."

"Then I am truly glad that I was stabbed by that revenant and came almost to my death at Hampton Court - for otherwise I would have been robbed not only of a fine Second, but also the dearest friend I have ever known."

"Sentiment, my Lord?" I ask, eyebrow cocked.

"It is not unknown." He smiles back, then sits up, "Do you think I should strike everyone dumb by seeking a partner for the dance?"

* * *

Our first Council meeting after the Coronation is little different from the one we held before it. The Queen Regent is polite, listens intently, asks questions where she needs to, and offers opinions that are remarkably astute for one so lacking in education. Equally, King Edward listens, and is always given the opportunity to express his views - and equally accepts constructive comments if his view is mistaken. His eagerness to learn his craft is quite heartwarming, for he is as keen as his mother to be the good King that he has the potential to be.

"The ongoing project to develop a system of roads is continuing apace, Majesty," Cromwell reports, "The western route is within striking distance of Bristol, and from there we shall continue on to the Cities of Exeter and Plymouth - which shall do much to aid the merchants who are already beginning to explore opportunities to trade with nations across the known world."

"Did we not have roads before?" Edward asks, intrigued.

"I think we did, Majesty," Somerset says, "but they were long lost - and all that remains now is the knowledge of the routes we once had."

"If that is so, and travel is easier, then I should be most pleased to go on progress before the summer is at its end. I have seen little of this great Kingdom that I was born to rule, and I should like to change that."

All eyes turn to the Regent, who thinks the matter over carefully before speaking, "My Lords, I think his Majesty should indeed be granted the opportunity to see, and be seen by, his subjects, for only the citizens of London have been granted that privilege. If I recall, plans were begun to undertake a progress prior to my late Lord's passing. Perhaps these plans could be revived? Though I think we need not go as far north as York just yet. There is ample time to do so in the coming years. Perhaps to Warwick?"

"Warwick is in a very poor state of repair, Majesty," I advise her, "When we planned the previous Progress, we thought instead to lodge the Court at Kenilworth, a little further north. If that is still desirable, perhaps to travel there by way of Oxford and sundry towns in between. The summer is nearly upon us, so we cannot travel too far before the weather breaks - but it shall be a start, and we shall then be practised and prepared for larger progresses in coming summers."

Northumberland is glaring at me, I note, for I have stolen his thunder again; but while he suggested the prospect of going on progress, he has not at any time been involved in organising one. As I have, it is natural that all would look to me to answer the Queen's query - so I care nothing for his disgruntlement. Not enough to dismiss it entirely - but enough to show the Elder Dudley that he does not intimidate me.

King Edward is delighted at the prospect of escaping the confines of the Palace and meeting the people that he now rules, and Queen Jane is smiling at his pleasure. He shall, of course, learn in time that ruling is a harsh business that can make cruel demands of those who are called upon to serve their Kingdom so - but he is not yet ten years old, and his mother is there to shoulder that burden until he is old enough to do so for himself.

We move on to other matters of a far duller nature, but the intention to go on progress keeps the King's mood buoyant, and instead it is the younger Seymour who sits and sulks as we talk. Naturally, we ignore his childish behaviour - which does little to improve his mood - and business is concluded in good time, and most cordially. I think Cromwell is still unused to departing such affairs without at least one contusion.

There is still an hour until Dinner is to be served in the Hall, so we return to our respective offices to begin searching out the papers that we generated when organising the aborted progress last year. Fortunately, thanks to the excellent archiving system that was established firstly by Wolsey, and then expanded upon by both Cromwell and Wriothesley, the papers shall be in our hands by mid afternoon. With nothing else immediate to do, I decide to abandon my desk awhile and work up an appetite with a stroll in the summer-scented privy gardens.

I suppose it was rather too much to expect that the poisonous factionalism that tainted the Council table in Henry's reign would have died with him - for the opportunity to gain wealth and power through proximity to the King is still sufficient temptation to inspire such deadly alliances. We are too new a group for any specific threats to have arisen, but it could not be clearer that Northumberland, and Thomas Seymour, are two who would take any step they can to elevate their own positions - and neither care who they destroy in the process. Both are ambitious, though Northumberland is certainly the cleverer of the two, for despite a wont to be impetuous, he is not as uncontrolled as the younger Seymour.

Despite my thoughts, I am still quite remarkably contented in the sunlit warmth of the garden, surrounded by thick hedges of yew and fragrant flowers over which insects buzz drowsily. Seeing a bench, I seat myself and close my eyes to drink it in. Such opportunities are few and far between for a Court official such as I.

"The King shall never permit it, Robin."

I am startled back to awareness by the sound of a woman's voice - no, more than that; Lady Elizabeth's voice. To whom is she speaking? Who is 'Robin'?

"But can you not agree to allow me to ask, my beloved?" My heart sinks, for I know that voice, too: Robert Dudley - I recall it from that day when we rode out together while Edward was still a Prince.

"My poor dear one," she sighs, sadly, "I should like nothing more - but you know as I do that your suit would be cold, for I am of the Blood, but you are not. It could never be permitted, no matter how much we wished it."

I feel dreadful, listening to such a private conversation, but I dare not move, for they are silent now, and there is gravel underfoot. They would hear me, and know they were overheard…but, Elizabeth knows what I am, even if Dudley does not. If they know that it is I, then they can be assured that I shall speak of it to no one; but what if they act upon the burgeoning love that appears to be between them?

"Then I shall earn every honour that I can - to become worthy of you." Dudley declares stoutly - and from the throbbing sincerity of his voice, I have no doubt that he shall do so. Surely he must know that, as the daughter of a King, she cannot be married to a commoner? Regardless of the uncertainty over her legitimacy, she remains a valuable tool of diplomacy - and should it be required of her, she shall marry one of her own kind. High-born women are never granted a choice in such matters: some are fortunate and find happiness - others are not. Those strange double standards of the marriage vows grant a Husband unhappy with his bride to seek solace in other women, but disappointed wives are expected to find their solace in managing the household, caring for children or, if all else fails, in needlework. God knows I have proved that - for I have had mistresses in my time, and there are four children in the world who could, by right of blood, call me father - but were not borne by my wife.

I hear footsteps retreating, and then freeze in utter horror, for whoever was left behind is now coming into the small hedged garden in which I sit.

"My Lord?" Lady Elizabeth is looking at me, worriedly.

Without hesitation, I rise to my feet and bow deeply, "My Lady."

She looks helpless for a moment, and then speaks, "It was nothing - what you heard…nothing."

"I heard nothing but birdsong, my Lady." I advise her, calmly, "What else is there to hear in a summer garden?"

"Then you will not speak…" she begins

"I cannot speak bird, my Lady. Thus, what shall I say?" I interrupt, hastily, "What I do know is that these gardens hold many secrets - and such secrets remain within its verdant heart. But I shall say one thing - I heard the dialogue of a robin and an ermine; and the words of the ermine were wise, for it is said that the robin's breast was stained red by blood."

"Thank you, my Lord. I think, too, that the ermine was wise." She agrees, though a little sadly, "Shall you not be coming in to dine?"

Bowing to her, I fall into step beside her. I can understand why Dudley is so enamoured, for she has grown into a true alabaster beauty with the famed red-gold hair of her line. It shall not be much longer before she shall be required to coif those golden locks as a woman should; and be obliged to do her duty to her King. Regardless of her own will.

I can only hope that Edward shall find her a worthy husband, then.

* * *

Perhaps I should speak to Cromwell about that conversation in the garden - for it could prove to be problematic if Dudley really is intent upon winning the hand of the Lady Elizabeth. No matter how much he wishes to have her for his wife, the King would never permit it, and neither would her stepmother. There is no way upon this earth that Queen Jane would force the Lady to marry a cruel or unworthy man - but nonetheless, blood calls to blood - and there is no escaping that fate for a woman of Royal birth.

But I promised her that the words I overheard in the garden would stay there, and thus my tongue is stopped as though I were a priest in the confessional. The man I once was would certainly have used it for his own gain, but I am not that man any more, and so I shall hold my tongue. That said, I think I shall keep watch over the younger Dudley - for he is quite set upon the Lady, and thus could cause all manner of trouble if he does what he should not, and attempts to seek the King's consent for her hand. Northumberland is not _that_ secure upon the Council - I still remember the consternation that was caused when Gardiner accused Cromwell of plotting to gain the hand of the Lady Mary, and he had been in a far stronger position, or so it seemed at the time.

"What is concerning you, Richie?" Cromwell asks, looking across the desk at me, as I sit staring off into space, papers set out on the desk before me unread.

"What? Oh, nothing of consequence. I was thinking how pleasant it was in the gardens before dinner - for I was required to share it only with bees and sparrows - but within the Palace, we must counter plots and factions again, even though we have been at the Council table for mere weeks."

"Alas, yes," he agrees, "I fear that such manoeuvrings shall never end until the governance of the Kingdom is in the hands of those who have no vested interest in profiting from the favour of a King. They would serve him better, and he would be well counselled, for the only interest would be what is best for the Kingdom, and not for one's own benefit."

My God - did he actually believe me? I have never been able to fool him - but my thoughts were indeed along those lines, so it is not as though I am speaking untruthfully. Instead, I have merely left out a single detail. Rather than dwell on it, for he shall _certainly_ know that I have not said all that I am thinking, I resume my perusal of the papers that I wrote last year setting out where the Court would be hosted, and how they would be victualled and watered, "I think we shall have far fewer travelling with us this time, Thomas. His Majesty's father liked to travel with many, for such an entourage was an open display of his might. Queen Jane is less concerned with such matters."

"Ah, quality over quantity." Cromwell smiles, "Though I cannot vouch for the degree of disappointment amongst those who shall not be required to travel with us. I shall ask Mr Wriothesley to set a team of clerks to work contacting those who were asked to host us previously - as far north as Kenilworth, I think; for you are right to suggest we go no further than there this year - to see if they are still prepared to do so. I have no doubt that their eagerness shall be greater this time, for we are at the start of a new reign, and they shall be keen to seek favour."

"I shall gather a group of clerks to set to work upon calculating how much we shall need in terms of victuals, beverages and fodder. It would be most impolite for us to descend as the ravening horde of locusts that you claimed us to be last year."

He smiles at the remembrance, "I did indeed say that, did I not? But if we can bring down the numbers that shall travel with us, then we shall be rather more welcome, I think. Obviously, we shall require the Council to travel with us, for we shall need to meet several times while upon the road." He grimaces.

"That is not a pleasant prospect." I agree.

"While I welcome the distraction from the dullness of travel, for I am never comfortable when doing so upon Court business, I prefer not to be so far from the centre."

"Then I think that makes you truly unique, Thomas - for most shall be as eager to come with us as you are to stay behind."

He nods, "I know - a Progress is the ideal opportunity for lesser Courtiers to ingratiate themselves with the King through some service or other; but I prefer to remain in London, for that is the place that is in my care. The provinces are guarded by the Itinerants."

"Think of it as an opportunity to meet with them and discuss their concerns, Thomas. I have not met them, so it would be worthwhile to do so if only for my benefit."

Then he smiles, "I had not thought of that; it seems that I have become rather isolated from my fellows - and that is most rude of me. We shall be staying in Oxford for several days - so perhaps we should ask Bull, Hare and Boar to join us there."

"How shall we invite them?" I ask, for I have never contacted any other Silver Sword before.

"I shall see to it, Richie. There are some secrets that are kept between Silver Swords - for not all are granted the privilege of a Second."

"Given that I was obliged to keep my ability to communicate with Wolsey from you for some considerable time, I am in no position to be resentful." I tell him, though I am lying - at least a little.

"But you are, nonetheless." Cromwell's smile widens.

"Yes." I admit, cheerfully.

* * *

Thanks to the work we did last year, the organisation of the King's first progress takes far less time than it might otherwise have done. Equally, thanks to the unassailable favour he holds with both the King and the Regent, additional to the agreement of Somerset as head of the Regency Council, Cromwell has been able to keep the numbers of unnecessary hangers-on down to a far more sensible level than the enormous throng that was to have accompanied King Henry. Consequently, we are able to depart from Whitehall in mid-June, a gaily dressed procession of wealth, power and unmitigated self-regard that wends its way northwards out of London in the light of early morning.

The procession is, of course, led by trumpeters and drummers, followed by several ranks of guards. Then comes the King and the Queen Regent, closely followed by Somerset, with Cromwell and I just behind him. Northumberland - again, much to his disgust - is relegated to the rank behind, with the rest of the Council. Behind us come lesser Courtiers who have some function or other that ensures they could not be left behind, the Queen's ladies - under the watchful eye of Lady Rochford - and the King's Gentlemen. To the rear comes the enormous baggage train, carrying plate, linens, and everything that anyone in the great party could ever need. Most affect not to notice that it is surrounded by far more guards even than the King.

The Lady Elizabeth is also travelling, though Prince Hal - as disgusted as Northumberland at the discovery of a decision that he dislikes - has remained behind with his Household, transferring to Eltham. Queen Jane has ensured, however, that one of her own ladies has been planted in amongst his people, as his disgruntlement makes him easy prey for any flatterer who thinks it possible to court him with a view to displacing his elder brother.

The King, however, could not be happier - it is clear to all who see him that he is joyful, rosy cheeked and smiling broadly at the crowds who have turned out to see him.

"God save your Majesty!" someone shouts.

"Long live King Harry's Bairn!" someone adds, for that long shadow still has not entirely departed.

Words of similar sentiment follow us for miles out of the City, until we are in areas too sparsely populated to generate crowds of such size. Our pace slows to a plod, for the sake of the foot soldiers at the head of the column, and Somerset falls back aways to talk to us, "What arrangements are in place for tonight?"

"We are being hosted at Newland Manor - east of Chalfont St Giles. I am given to understand that our host, Lord Newland, has arranged a comedic masque with the assistance of the Earl of Oxford, who has lent his company of actors for the occasion. We decided to avoid allegorical presentations or entertainments of too great a length, for I imagine his Majesty shall be very tired by the time we reach our accommodation. Once he has retired, there shall be opportunities for those who wish to dance to indulge themselves. We shall remain there tomorrow and for one additional night, before we continue on our way. We have avoided any formal activities, and instead his Majesty shall have the time to recover from a day in the saddle, and perhaps fly some falcons or indulge in archery as he wishes. There shall be more than enough opportunities for courtly functions and display when we reach Aylesbury - though I suspect that his Majesty shall have ample time to practise his Latin when we arrive in Oxford itself."

Somerset chuckles at this - we all know how much the Masters and Gentlemen of the Universities like to display their intellects.

By the time we arrive at Newland, I am tired, dusty, hot and eager to at least wash my face, if I cannot change my clothes or bathe. Given the number of people present, I suspect that sufficient hot water shall be in short supply, and I know that I shall be lucky to be housed inside the house rather than a converted barn or - worse - under canvas.

Once we are all settled, I am fortunate to be inside the house, though high up near the roof in a very small room of indifferent character and with rough, rather threadbare furnishings. It is better than for those who are not - for some have even had to be accommodated in the houses of estate workers - hastily decorated for the purpose, so I am grateful for small mercies.

We sup in a great barn that has been decorated with green branches, swags of fabric and festooned with candles. An attempt has been made to fragrance the place - but there is still a lingering odour of the cow-byre present - though I have no doubt that it shall be swamped by the reek of four hundred unwashed bodies before the night is done.

Fortunately, the aroma of freshly cooked victuals is more than sufficient to banish the last whiffs of manure, and the enormous repast is swiftly assaulted by the ravenous diners. While Lord Newland is certainly giving a highly creditable performance of a man delighted to be the first to host the new King as he goes on Progress, I have no doubt that he is looking at the sheer expense with genuine horror - for it is not unknown for men to bankrupt themselves when hosting the Court. I am glad that we are here for only one more day - though I think it would never have occurred to King Henry that he was driving his Lords to penury by imposing himself upon them as a guest.

As soon as we have eaten our fill, the tables are cleared of all but a large selection of fruits and sweetmeats, while the stewards offer hippocras or chilled cider. The King looks as though he is fighting to stay awake now, but he soon perks up as the players begin to perform a delightfully ridiculous confection of the school of the _Commedia Dell'Arte_ , that largely improvised art from Italy that has recently arrived upon our shores.

While it is intended to serve as a break in mood from the more regular tragedies and deep histories, such a play is perfect for a tired boy who wishes to remain present with his elders despite his drooping eyelids. It seems to have no particular plot, but instead relies upon mistaken identities, idiotically obvious disguises and all round confusion - though I note that the crude gestures, grotesque noises and general rudery one would often see in such performances is surprisingly noticeable by its absence. They are, after all performing for a boy of nine, who laughs delightedly as two men, weapons at the ready, back towards one another, seemingly unaware that they are approaching each other posterior first, only to turn around each other before they meet, and then continue forwards, having missed one another entirely. It is a simple device, but performed with such precision that all are laughing at it.

All too soon, the play is at an end, and the King cannot hide his yawns any longer. To my surprise, for I am sure I was not be so disciplined at such a young age, he accepts the inevitable, and rises to bid the Court good night, before departing with his Gentlemen. Queen Jane is not the only person present who looks upon him proudly for his maturity.

Once he has retired, a small group of musicians strikes up, and the ladies are soon engaged in a most lively country-style dance. Again, Cromwell is tapping his foot, and watches almost wistfully, even though there are no men involved.

"Forgive me, Richie." He sighs, "I am feeling my age tonight - for once I would have been amongst those who danced."

"I never believed you could." I admit, "I assumed that you had never been taught how to."

He looks quite surprised, "The Dancing Master in Milan would be scandalised at your assumption, Richie - we were taught all manner of skills to be able to move within a Court - and that included dancing."

"That merely proves to be another thing that you are better at than me." I tell him, with feigned disgruntlement.

"Not any more, Richie." He smiles, a little sadly, "Not any more."

As the evening draws to a close, I seek my bed, my cheerful mood rather doused by Cromwell's obvious sadness. I wish he wouldn't refer to his age as he does - for it causes me to fear that he shall retire and leave Court - and abandon me with a new Silver Sword whom I must serve to the same degree of loyalty. And I am not ready to do that.

No. Enough of that - we have too much to be doing. Tomorrow shall be a day of rest for us all, and then we shall continue to Aylesbury - and then to Oxford.


	14. Potential

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Ally - glad you're enjoying the story, and I'm grateful for the questions, too: I like discussing the background of this AU, so it's nice to get the chance to do it.

And so, on we go! There's a bit of a surprise at the end of this chapter, too. Hopefully one that no one will've seen coming...

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

 _Potential_

I have not participated in a Progress for years, for by the time I was prominent enough to travel in one, the King's age precluded him from travelling too far, or too often. There shall be no work today - for his Majesty has not been in the saddle for an entire day before, and is likely to welcome the respite. Even the hardiest of riders is sore after an entire day's riding, after all.

Lord Newland maintains a remarkable collection of falconry birds, for the sport is not as popular as it once was - so few men keep them in such numbers these days, and Edward is quite delighted to view his stock, while at the same time talking happily to his host about Lancelot while choosing which birds he would like to see being flown. Somerset is with him, and two of his immediate Gentlemen, but otherwise, most courtiers are occupied elsewhere.

I am not surprised that Cromwell is nearby, however, for he is also keen upon the sport - though he spends more time watching the birds flown than flying them himself, so busy is he these days. I think that he seems almost to thrive on being so utterly occupied with work - but today he seems quite content to do very little, and to set aside the problems that always follow us wherever we go. Being far less interested in hunting birds, I leave them to their pleasure and wander off into the wider parkland for a while.

Being away from Court, and in unfamiliar territory, there shall be no plotting in quiet corners while we are here, for no one knows where they can gather unnoticed, and thus I feel content to stroll along woodland paths that have been carefully tended to appear rather more wild and verdant than they truly are. There is not a soul nearby, and I am surrounded by the chattering of birds; while, nearby, a squirrel watches me nervously from a high branch of a silver birch.

It is then that I hear the sound of hoofbeats in the distance, and I turn, wondering who is riding to the house at such a frantic pace - is there bad news? Have we been invaded? Why such urgency? But I can see no one in the fields beyond - but that sound continues, and grows nearer - and suddenly I am deeply afraid, for there can be no other source for that thunderous approach. To my horror, once again, that knight is coming towards me, astride a blood-red steed whose eyes are as red as its rider's armour, and I turn to run. Why I do so, I cannot fathom, for I cannot outrun them, but still I try. That strange figure wants me dead - no, not that, it wants to kill me, as brutally as possible - for I must not be permitted to live…for I know all things. I have shadowsight.

Out of breath, I turn, "I do not have what you think I have!" I shout back, between breathless gasps, "I know not what you seek from me!"

If the rider can hear or understand me, it gives me no sign, but continues to ride at me. Panic stricken, I scramble behind the trunk of a large Chestnut tree, for that dread horse cannot mow me down if I have a barrier between us.

The hoofbeats cease, but I cannot tell whether it is because the rider has pulled up, or he has vanished - and I am too afraid to look. I have not heard him dismount, and there is no sound that horses make after they have galloped for a long time. Please let him be gone…please…

Then there is a dreadful sharpness against my back, and I look down to see a ghastly blade protruding from my abdomen - that long, two-handed sword has been driven right through the tree in order to pierce me. I want to scream - but I cannot; and my eyes are fixed upon that glistening blade…but…there is no blood…

When I find myself aware of my surroundings again, I am once more upon the ground, having fallen to the earth. As before, my head aches cruelly, and I feel overheated. It seems that all that I saw was no more than a dream again. Terrifying though that Red Knight appears to be, it is not able to cause me the harm that it intends: I can see it, and feel it, but I am - essentially - unharmed. Once again, I berate myself for forgetting to seek answers in the Library - and, worse, I have not brought the small coffer that Wolsey uses as his anchor to reach me - so I have shut myself off from his assistance, for he has not the strength to do so without something of importance to him that he can use to cling to. What a fool - I am sure he shall delight in insulting me roundly when I return to London.

Slowly, for I am rather dizzy, I clamber back to my feet. No one has come by, and I have no idea how long I have been unconscious, so I do not know if I have been missed. I rather hope not, for how can I explain myself? I should very much rather not admit another attack to Cromwell, for that shall only worry him. Given the state of my garments however, if I have missed the midday meal, then I can at least claim that I became lost in the woods and fell.

But still I cannot fathom what is meant by that word shadowsight - and now, with no means for him to reply quickly, there is little point in contacting Cecil to ask him to consult the Library. Truly, I have been an idiot - for again I have left myself without the means to solve a problem that continues to assail me without warning. Sighing, I turn and make my way back to the house.

* * *

We have stopped at a number of houses of varying sizes and states of comfort over the last six days, but now the rooftops and spires of Oxford are in the distance, and those who are tired of being housed in tents can look forward to decent lodgings at last.

So far, we have been treated to a masque of such depth in its allegory that no one really understood what on earth was happening, a wild ballet of dancing nymphs that was only slightly marred by two of said nymphs colliding and tumbling to the ground in a most ungainly fashion, and an endless variety of musical performances that have varied in quality from magnificent to truly shocking.

The crowds that have gathered to watch their King pass by have been wonderful, thank God - cheering and waving, as Edward smiles back, and waves with a slightly jaunty air that inspires much delight. Equally, the weather has been largely benign - with rain clouds depositing their loads in the night while we have been under cover, leaving the days clear and dry for travelling upon the newly constructed roads.

We are to be accommodated by several of the Colleges, though those of us at the highest level are to be hosted by the Dean of Christ Church - as this, the most aristocratic College, was re-founded by the King's Father in the year before he died. But for my position as Lord Privy Seal, I suspect my Barony would have relegated me to one of the lesser colleges, perhaps Magdalen or Brasenose, though I feel a mild sense of loyal discomfort at my surroundings, as I spent my university years at Cambridge.

Again, my quarters are relatively simple, but comfortable, and I can see out across the Quadrangle that was built by my own predecessor as Cromwell's Second, for Wolsey founded the College before it was suppressed and re-founded.

 _At long damned last. Why the hell did you not bring the coffer, Rich?_

Of course - why did I not think of it? This is a place that was precious to him, and so he can come to me here.

"Forgive me, Eminence. My mind was on organisational matters, and I allowed myself to forget that which is most important."

 _You did indeed. Idiot._

He is not wrong there.

"Do you know what happened at Newland Manor, Eminence?"

 _Not well - I felt your fear, but I could not see you or find you. Have you_ still _not investigated these strange events? God above, is your head stuffed with wool these days?_

Suddenly, I feel quite unaccountably miserable - for I know why I have not acted; what is distracting me. I am afraid to delve into this for fear that it shall bring harm to Cromwell, or drive him to think that he must retire forthwith - and leave me behind as he returns to Milan.

 _You cannot continue to be so damp eyed about this, Richard_. Wolsey's voice sounds kinder now, for he can see my distress as he could not do when I was at Newland, _If you do not act, then sooner or later this shall overwhelm you. I know not what this thing shadowsight is, nor can any tell me. I am no longer able to consult Cassandra, for she has closed that door between us. Her task was to aid us in the destruction of Lamashtu, which she has done. Now we must move on without her counsel._

"I know, Eminence - and, yes, I have been a fool, leaving London and the Library when I should have gone there and consulted it until I found answers. But I did not, and now I must accept any consequences that arise as a result of it - so I shall do the next best thing and set William to work upon it. If he cannot find anything, then there is nothing in the Library to be found."

 _That is, at least, a start_.

Rather than dwell upon the matter, I seat myself at the writing desk that is set close to the window, and pen a hasty missive to Cecil, asking him to search the library for a phenomenon or object called 'Shadowsight'. I cannot begin to guess what it might be, and so I can give him few clues to aid him in his search other than to describe that which I have seen in the strange visions that have struck me. As he is now more aware of the world in which we move, he shall not be overly bemused by my descriptions. I suspect that I ought to advise Cromwell, too - but without any additional information, it seems rather pointless.

I am roused from my work by the sound a knock upon the door, and hastily conceal the paper. I am not surprised to find that Cromwell is without, "I have secured our meeting with my colleagues, Richie; we shall meet tomorrow evening at a well concealed tavern called the Spotted Cow."

"I beg your pardon?" I have not heard such a ridiculous name before.

Cromwell smiles, "I suggest that you dress quite roughly. It is not a place for men of our station. We shall depart at six."

As soon as he is gone, I seal the note and summon a steward to organise its dispatch to Whitehall, where John shall ensure its onward journey to Grant's Place. I should have much rather have had him travel with me - but only his Majesty has all his servants present, while the rest of us are obliged to make do with a small group of stewards, and those staff who are already present at the houses we visit. At least there is no danger of our most precious secret being discovered.

As I am in the habit of being prepared to hunt, I have the very sort of garb that Cromwell is keen that I wear for our somewhat unexpected excursion. While I am hardly unused to the rougher kind of Tavern, I have not entered such an establishment for many years, and I have certainly not met any other Silver Sword. How they shall greet one another, I cannot begin to guess; and I am rather nervous as to what they shall make of me. While they know of us, Itinerant Silver Swords do not have Seconds, and thus they are probably unaware of our importance to those whom we serve. That said, I know that Cromwell is the most highly respected man in the Order, so perhaps some of his glory shall rub off upon me.

* * *

Our departure from Christ Church is surreptitious - though we are obliged to be most careful as we are leaving in daylight. Being used to concealing ourselves from prying eyes, however, we are soon free of the precincts and making our way along unfamiliar streets. As we are neither of us richly dressed, and moving in streets where we are entirely unknown, our anonymity grants us a remarkable degree of freedom, and I can see immediately that Cromwell is quite delighted to be away from the stifling formality of his position at Court, and he moves with an easy gait that I have not seen in some years.

"Ah, I had forgotten what it was to be a simple man, Richie." He says, as we stroll along a narrow, cobbled street, "I think I should do so more regularly - for I am becoming quite too habituated to the ease that wealth brings; and that is not a good thing when one is intent upon improving the lot of men who are not so exalted."

I have never lived in such circumstances, so I cannot make any attempt at a comparison - but I am quite enjoying this unusual diversion. No one bows to us, or even pays us much mind; there are no guards, no irritating hangers-on eager to gain advancement from association with us. Instead, we are as anonymous as any around us, and walk together with only the purpose of attending a tavern. I have not done such a thing since I was at the Middle Temple, and that was rather more years ago than I am willing to confess to.

The Spotted Cow is remarkably well hidden, and we are obliged to make our way through a long, narrow alleyway to find it. Once there, we continue on through several courtyards and chambers, until we find one that is unaccountably empty, for the others are most busy. As he speaks to the nearby innkeeper, Cromwell mentions that the river seems rather high.

"Ah yes, Sir - but it shall not stay so forever." He smiles, and shows us into the empty room - which he seems quite keen to keep others away from.

"Does he know?" I ask, quietly, as Cromwell seats himself comfortably beside a small fire.

"Not entirely; he is a Lutheran reformer, and thinks that he is hosting fellow reformers who wish to meet in secret."

My eyes widen, nervously; despite the change in reign, such hopes for religious reform are still most dangerous - for there are a number of conservatives at Court who are intending to attempt to halt the retreat from Rome, and reverse it. If we were to be discovered…

"There are no books, and no papers, Richie; no secret signs and no symbols. To any who enter this tavern, we are but a group of men meeting over pots of ale."

I am not entirely reassured by such a comment, and I find I do not wish to raise the cup of ale that is before me, for I fear it might reveal that my hands are shaking. I may be a braver man than once I was - but I am not _that_ brave. I have no wish to endure the inevitable fate of a heretic; for I have never forgotten the blistering heat of the fire that Zaebos set as a warning to us of the deaths that Wyatt and I should face if Cromwell did not hand over his swords - and his head. I think, having overcome my fear of being skewered by a blade, being burned alive is the thing I fear the most; and I have seen the resolve of the most staunch believer crumble away as the flames reach them.

He smiles at me - for he understands; but then he looks up as the Innkeeper shows in a rather small, but heavy looking man with a singularly prominent hooked nose. The arrival seems hideously uncouth, taking up a cup of ale with a most guttural sniff as he sits, "Par'n me."

I am tempted to ask him to remove himself, but I have learned from long experience never to make assumptions on the basis of what is before my eyes, and I wait until the man has drained his cup, wiping the foam from his upper lip with his sleeve, and looks at Cromwell with interest, "I saw this strange lot of words on the wall of the Tavern, and I haven't the first notion what they mean. Have you ever heard _in gladiis elegit me_ before? You looks like a university man."

"I fear not," Cromwell admits, "My schooling took place quite far from here - but I did see _et elegit caestus_ inscribed upon the wall of the privy."

Immediately, the man seems to sit up straighter, and that air of roughness vanishes, "I thought it to be you, Raven - but I did not recognise your companion. You must be Mr Rich." He is smiling now, and I feel rather less nervous.

"I am. And you are?"

"I am Boar, Mr Rich." The man advises.

"I am pleased to meet you." I stretch out my hand and he shakes it with a powerful, strong grip.

"And I you - your reputation as a Second is quite unmatched."

"It is?" Even though I have been told this many times, it still comes as a surprise to me.

Before Boar can answer, the Innkeeper returns and shows in another man, this one taller, but still well muscled, and with a bluff, hearty looking face. As he did before, he asks about an obscure latin phrase that he saw in some implausible place, and Cromwell advises that he did not see it, but saw another one somewhere else. It must be a sign and counter-sign, for the first statement, 'the swords chose me' is followed by 'and I chose the gauntlets'. They would appear to be nothing but a pair of random phrases scratched upon walls in a university town - but to those of the Order, the meaning could not be clearer.

This arrival turns out to be Hare, who seems to be most affable for a man living such a solitary existence. He seems equally pleased to meet me, and just as impressed by my apparent exploits as Cromwell's Second. God, if they knew how many mistakes I had made, how often the burden became almost too much for me…

And at last the final member of our strange party arrives. Again he mentions the strange words he saw, and asks if we can aid him - and Cromwell admits not - but that he saw another sequence of strange words in an equally improbable location - and I am introduced to Bull. Despite the name, he is paradoxically small and spare - with a narrow face and a pointed chin and nose that seem as though they might meet if they were but a little longer; and when he smiles, I find myself wishing that he would not, for most of his teeth seem blackened and rotten.

"For goodness' sake, Bull," Hare says, with a crossness that seems to be humorous rather than irked, "Can you not clean that mess? You look as though your mouth shall become a gaping mass of nothing!"

Grinning, Bull extracts a kerchief, and rubs at the revolting teeth, revealing that they are not rotten at all. Though one is broken slightly. "Love to say it was a demon, Mr Rich." He says, cheerfully, "But it was a tavern brawl."

Cromwell rolls his eyes, and Bull laughs, "You should have seen the other man, Raven."

"I think I am grateful that I did not."

"At least it was something to do." He says, "I haven't even seen a ravener in two years, much less fought one. The higher level combatants must have winnowed their way through almost all that still live - most disappointing. How am I supposed to kill them if they are already dead?"

"It is the same in our place of work also, Gentlemen." Cromwell advises, "While I welcome the respite, I am still concerned that it shall not last forever, and thus we remain vigilant - as do the spies."

"And nothing's come through from the House?" Hare asks.

"Nothing." I confirm, "Well, nothing other than deliveries of papers that might be of use in future times."

"Ah yes, the famed Cardinal's Library." Boar smiles, supping at another mugful of ale, "That's saved us more than anything else in England."

"His Eminence was a wise man - in spite of his faults," I agree, "For not only did he accumulate it, but he organised it so that others could use it as I learned to, and my apprentices have done."

"True - but he did not find the Fires, did he?" Boar adds, "That is your achievement, and that is what sets you apart. That and your decision to fight with the Raven. As I understand it, most Seconds hide amongst their books."

Cromwell laughs, "Had he done so, then I should have been dead many times over."

And then they all laugh as I redden. To think that I could have abandoned him to die that night in the offices at Hampton Court - my decision to aid him saved his life, as well as mine and many more; but to see the manner in which these three Silver Swords look upon me…it is strange to think that I was once a man who deserved only hatred and distrust. Lord above, how grateful I am that I am no longer that man - were I to meet myself as I was at that time, then I know that I would despise myself utterly.

We spend the remainder of the evening talking of our exploits in the most carefully measured terms, for we cannot be sure who is listening. At least, however, we are not discussing matters of religion.

There is one matter that is not raised - and one that I am grateful to ignore; Cromwell's increasing stiffness and encroaching age. The impression that I have gained this evening is that most Silver Swords tend to die in service - but I know that those who do not are welcomed back to the House at the end of their lives to retire there and teach those who shall follow them. I am also aware that the expectation is that Cromwell shall do this - for who has achieved as much as he? Fortunately, however, none of his fellows mention such a disastrous event - and I am grateful for it. Perhaps they know that it would truly break my heart if he left England, and I was obliged to remain behind.

Again, I force that dreadful thought from my head as we part company. That time shall come, of course - but it is not now, and I have enjoyed a pleasant excursion away from the cares and pressures of a Court that is in the midst of a progress.

"They are good men, Thomas." I note, as we make our way back to Christ Church, "It is a pity that we have not been granted the opportunity to fight beside them."

"Indeed they are. I always feel assured to leave the Palaces behind in the knowledge that Bull protects those who sweeten them. It is a harder task than mine, for he must travel frequently, and is always upon the move."

"Then he must be even more grateful for the lack of demons than we are."

Now that darkness has fallen, it is a far easier prospect to make our way inside unseen, though I fear that I am still as utterly clumsy as I was when first I attempted to climb walls to travel without being seen - and require Cromwell's assistance to scale the boundary wall that keeps us from our accommodation.

I am grateful to find my way safely back to my room, and it is a dreadful bother to change into a night-shirt, but I know that it shall cause much talk if I am found upon my bed in yesterday's clothes. This achieved, I am soon asleep.

* * *

Our onward journey north has taken us on a slow, circuitous route through a number of towns, staying at various homes of the higher ranking Lords, though I am most grateful that I am not among them - my properties being much further south - for the costs of doing so are clearly close to ruinous for some of our hosts.

Given the state of the castle at Warwick, we have eschewed it; though the column did pass through the town, to the delight of the citizenry. Instead, we are settled at the Castle at Kenilworth - a Crown property, so no unfortunate member of the nobility is being reduced to penury by our presence.

Despite the work that has been carried out, the site is little changed from the days when John of Gaunt built the magnificent great hall, but the state apartments are still very fine, and our prominence as Court Officials has ensured that Cromwell and I are granted rooms within that main block, as many of the rest of the Court are accommodated in apartments within the ancient Keep or even staying with nobles and gentry elsewhere in the County. There are however, some pleasure gardens set away from the main buildings that - thanks to a reduction in height of the curtain wall - overlook a wide expanse of fields beyond, stocked with cattle and sheep that provide wool, beef, milk and mutton to the castle; though the population of animals has been rather decimated in anticipation of our arrival, the carcasses hanging in the enormous larders with great numbers of capons, wild fowl and venison - all awaiting the Court's consumption.

Much of the castle is surrounded by lakes that serve both as a source of fishes, and as a lake for pleasure boats - though I prefer to avoid both, for I have no liking for fresh-water fishes, and there is no pleasure in sailing upon a body of water that also serves as the run-off for the latrine drains; and certainly not at this time of the year. I much prefer to spend time in the gardens, as they are fragrant with roses, as well as the large herb garden that is used by the kitchens.

Much of our time here shall be spent hunting, dancing and dining - though there shall be at least one meeting of the Council, as we shall remain here for several weeks before returning south as the last of the summer gives way to early autumn. Being thoroughly tired of long days in the saddle, I am more than happy to endure the mildly primitive conditions of the apartments in which I have been billeted. Judging by his expression as he sits upon a bench and breathes in the fragrance of the flowers, Cromwell's sentiments very much match mine.

"I have never travelled so far north before, Richie." He says, as I seat myself beside him, "While I prefer not to be far from London, I cannot deny that the air is most pleasant here. Well," He adds, sardonically, "it is on _this_ side of the castle."

"Even on the other side, it is not as offensive as the Thames can be in the height of summer."

"That is true." He concedes, "I note that Northumberland has been joined by all of his sons - for Robert arrived this morning."

"Robert?" I am surprised at this - or am I? His age precluded him from travelling with the main progress - but his intention of gaining the hand of the Lady Elizabeth is most strong - so how could he keep away now that we are settled for a few weeks? The Lady herself knows full well that his suit is hopeless, despite the fact that she reciprocates, and I suspect that she welcomed the opportunity to be kept apart from him, even as it caused her pain. Now, however, he has come to Kenilworth, and she must confront that dilemma once again.

Cromwell nods, "I do not think it wise that he permit it - for there are rumours that Robert has intentions of a marital kind for the Lady Elizabeth."

"And what of her thoughts?" I ask - for he does not know that I am aware that the rumours are true.

"I fear that, no matter what her opinion, she has been tarnished by her mother's reputation - regardless of the fact that she has done nothing to warrant it - at least nothing that I have noticed."

Of course - did they not refer to her as 'the little whore' when she was but a babe? Condemned as a wanton before she was even able to walk. No wonder she is so careful, despite her feelings. If she were to be found with Dudley now, then most would consider her to be more to blame than he - to the point of even leading him astray - despite being only fourteen years of age. After all, in the eyes of those who remember the fate of Queen Katherine, she has her mother's blood.

"It is a cruel fate." I agree, "Perhaps we should find some way to distract the young Mr Dudley - he is but a year older than the Lady, and consequently has all of the impetuosity of youth. Add to that his lack of experience in this poisonous atmosphere and he could well bring disaster upon them both."

He sighs, "I wish that it could be possible, but I fear that his father distrusts and dislikes me far too much to accept overtures towards his youngest son. As he is so determined to grasp all the power that he can, he does not see that I am interested only in preventing chaos in this Kingdom, and thus is quite certain that my ambitions match his own - and that I desire more even than I already have. Thus his primary wish is to supplant me."

"Better men than he have failed."

"Perhaps - but there is always blind luck, so I have no wish to be complacent."

We sit in silence awhile, for the sun is pleasant, and the garden fragrant. As the bench has a back, it is possible to sit back and enjoy an hour's respite from the cares of our professions. Cromwell has closed his eyes, and I think that he is dozing - not that I begrudge him such peace. In his own mind, his separation from London disconnects him from the operation of government, and he has no rapid form of communication with those who have remained there. Consequently, he is bereft of news of what is happening, which leaves him most uncomfortable; I can see it in his quiet fidgeting if we are unoccupied. Unlike most, he cannot abide not to be busy.

I enjoy the sounds of the countryside, even though I am most resolutely a man of city preference; and I note that the shadows are growing longer, "Thomas, we should go in; I think it cannot be much longer before the Court shall gather in the Hall to sup."

He stirs, then blinks rather rapidly, as though recovering his senses, "Yes - of course, Richie. Forgive me, I have been rather tired today - a consequence of being on the road for such a time. Shall we go in?"

* * *

The term 'supper' seems rather an understatement, given the enormous repast that awaits us. The hall in which we are served is of magnificent proportions; aided, I think, by the work that has been done to repair and restore the craftsmanship of those who preceded us in this place. Between the finely carved vault shafts and piers are tapestries that are in quite good repair, despite their location so far from anywhere of consequence. They are supplemented by additional tapestries that were carried with us - and all do rather too well at keeping in the warmth, for the fire is large, the enormous hall is full, and we are all quite uncomfortably hot.

The meal is, however, most welcome, and there is cold cider as well as claret in excellent supply. The choice is extensive, and I am hard put to choose between the leg of a capon with magnificently crisp and salty skin, and thick slices from a beautifully turned haunch of venison. Then I realise that I am being rather foolish, and select a leg, and also a slice.

The hall has one helpful innovation that enables us to eschew the tiresome inconvenience of being obliged to stand aside while the tables are cleared to make space for dancing - instead we withdraw to a large room nearby where the banquet of sweetmeats, fruits and nuts await us, with a choice of hippocras or sweet wine to accompany the selection. Her Majesty is seated at the head of the room, where she is served personally rather than being obliged to jostle with the rest of us at the tables. King Edward sits beside her, and is very pleased with the plate of candied fruits that are within reach. To my relief, Robert Dudley is far away from Elizabeth, who is at the opposite end of the room with a woman who was awaiting our arrival to become one of the Queen's Ladies - another Catherine, I believe; the recently widowed Lady Latimer. Thank God she is not a superficial young creature like Miss Howard; for she seems most sensible, and is keeping a close watch on her Lady's stepdaughter. Knowing what I know, it could not be more clear to me that the Lady Elizabeth is tense at the presence of the man who wishes to seek her hand - and to whom she would grant it if he were of better blood.

Dudley, on the other hand, is talking animatedly to the King, who hangs onto his every word with the excitement of a child being entertained by an older youth that he admires. Queen Jane watches him with a rather sad air, for she has quite possibly learned what I have already discovered; and knows, as I do, that such a suit can never be granted.

When we return to the Hall, a consort of musicians is in the gallery, while the tables have been set to the side with yet more sweetmeats and fancies set out for us to pick at for the rest of the evening. Already, couples are forming, and before long a Tourdion is in progress, and I take a seat, knowing that I shall never be any use as a partner.

As the dance draws to a close, the strains of a Pavane begin and the Queen herself rises; clearly intending to take a turn about the floor. I am not surprised when Northumberland positions himself close by in the hopes that she shall turn to him - but to everyone's surprise, instead she turns to Cromwell, "My Lord Chancellor, I should be most grateful if you could take me around the floor."

If the Court is surprised, then they are not half as surprised as Cromwell, who stares at her for a moment as though she has been transported there in an Olympian thunderbolt; but he recovers quickly and bows deeply, and leads her into the dance.

The dance is a stately one, and the participants touch only their fingertips as they move, so there is no scandal in what they do. Nonetheless Cromwell draws some altogether vicious stares from those who wish that they have been chosen in his place - but even more so as he moves with a precision and skill that I had never imagined he could achieve, other than when he fights.

Most of the younger Courtiers are also at the dance, though I notice that the Lady Elizabeth is not. I am not sure why - but I am suddenly keen to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr Dudley; and I sigh inwardly as I realise that he is not present either. With Cromwell engaged elsewhere, and all eyes upon his dance with his Queen, I am able to escape unseen.

My suspicions are, to my relief, correct - for the pair are in the ornamental garden, illuminated by a bright moon as the last of the daylight fades. I am not surprised to see that she seems distressed, and rather tense as Dudley speaks to her in an animated manner. It could not be clearer that he is attempting to persuade her that all hope for them is not lost. But she is fourteen, he fifteen - they are not granted a choice in the marriage market when one of them is the child of a King.

I am about to interrupt them, pretending that I am taking a constitutional, for all know that I am utterly unable to participate in the dancing, when my eye is caught by a movement in the shadows, and I curse, inwardly as I recognise the spindly shape of a ravener. Why now? Why here? Why when Cromwell is not present, for Christ's sake?

Before I can move, the blasted creature leaps out in front of the couple, and Elizabeth steps back with a sharp scream. She may not ever have seen a ravener until this moment, but she has heard our descriptions of them often enough, and knows what is confronting them. Dudley, of course, is entirely ignorant - but, to his credit, he immediately steps before her, and draws his sword - though a steel rapier shall be no more effective than a knitting needle; but he is not to know that.

My response is, thanks to years of experience, quite instinctive, and I rush forth to aid the pair. To my surprise, however, Dudley moves with a creditable speed despite not knowing what it is that he faces, and is holding the ghastly demon at bay with remarkable ability. But it is not enough - for only silver shall dispatch a ravener.

"Keep back, My Lord!" he cries, as I skid to a halt beside him, "Escort the Lady Elizabeth to safety!"

"And leave you to your doom?" I ask, "That sword shall never be enough."

I do not speak to him again, instead extending my right arm, " _Lezviye k moyey ruke_." Immediately, my blade hears my call, and is in my hand - unlike that dreadful moment in my waking nightmare when it did not come. Shouldering Dudley aside, I quickly dispatch the vile creature - for I am well practised in doing so - and it soon falls to dust.

"What was that monster?" Dudley demands, as I turn to him, "What the hell was it doing?"

"Was it a ravener, my Lord?" The Lady asks, rather breathless from her fright, "I have heard you describe them so many times - but it does not prepare one for seeing such a creature in the present."

" _You_ know what it was, my Lady?" now Dudley is most confused, and not a little irked, "How is it that I would not have been able to kill it?"

"Your weapon was made of steel, Mr Dudley," I advise him, quietly, "Mine, however, contains silver. Only silver can destroy a ravener - though I was most impressed at your skill in fighting it."

"I have never seen such a creature before, but I can assure you that it was the foulest smelling monster I have ever encountered."

That causes me to stop dead, "What did you say?"

"I had never seen…"

"No - afterwards. You _smelled_ it?"

"Indeed so - a hideously vile reek. I have never smelled such a vile stench."

"Describe it to me."

"Spoiled meat - but also roses. Truly horrible." He shudders.

Elizabeth turns to him, "You can smell demons…"

"Forgive me, my Lady, I do not understand your meaning."

"But I do." I tell him, "Come with me. You need to speak to the Lord Chancellor."

* * *

 **A/N:** Just a quick note about the Oxford Tavern that Cromwell and Rich visit - there really was a well concealed Tavern in the town called 'The Spotted Cow' - and it still exists as the Turf Tavern (the name having been changed in the 19th Century to try and escape an unsavoury reputation for gambling), though I've not been there myself, alas, so the interior is a combination of conjecture and descriptions from the pub's website. Apparently it also has a more modern literary connection in that it was Inspector Morse's favourite watering hole!


	15. Back to the Palace

Chapter Fifteen

 _Back to the Palace_

Cromwell eyes the young Dudley with interest, "You say he detected ichor?"

I am about to nod, but the Lady Elizabeth speaks first, "Yes, indeed, my Lord - he described it in much the same fashion as you did when you first related the story of your life to us."

Now Dudley looks confused, "Was I the only one to smell that creature?"

"You were. Most men cannot - only a small number have the ability." I provide, as Cromwell continues his quiet perusal of the young man standing before him.

"Take a seat, Mr Dudley." He says, now that we have stopped interrupting him, "What I am about to tell you is quite fantastical; or so it shall seem to you. That you were able to defend the Lady from a ravener is remarkable, though you would not have been appropriately armed to save her, or yourself. Fortunately, I have a companion who is able to fight them, and who has the weaponry to do so - and thus, between you, you have saved the life of a King's daughter."

Perhaps I should be bored by now of this tale - but even as Dudley leans forth, quite captivated by it, I find that I do the same, as does the Lady Elizabeth. At Cromwell's prompting, I adjourn through to his bedchamber, for he has better quarters than I, and retrieve the carefully-wrapped Raven blades for him to show the Duke's son.

"You have been granted a rare gift, Mr Dudley." Cromwell advises, as the young man carefully examines one of his magnificent swords, "The ability to detect ichor is given to few men, and most never learn that they possess it - for we can only find such men if we come across them in the midst of an encounter with a demon - as happened to you this night."

"Then you are also a Silver Sword, my Lord Rich?" he asks me, which causes Elizabeth to giggle.

"I am not." I shake my head, "While I wield a silver blade, it is not the blade of a Silver Sword, and I have no sigil. I am the Raven's Second."

"Second?" Dudley looks between us, awaiting an explanation.

"Silver Swords assigned to the royal Courts are granted the aid of a learned companion, who assists them in their work through research and discovery. Such companions are termed 'Seconds'."

"I am perhaps unusual in that I have a sword, and fight with it." I continue, "But my role is to seek out the information that the Raven needs in order to undertake the Mission."

"Which is?"

"To protect the Kingdom from demonic incursion, by ensuring the safety of the King and Government." Cromwell advises, quietly, "Demons thrive in an atmosphere of chaos, for that is their natural state. Where there is no chaos, they cannot prosper - and so the work of Silver Swords placed in the Courts of Kings is to protect those who rule. In my case, I have perhaps gone further, in that I serve the government and thus participate in the creation of laws to secure peace in this realm."

"A noble pursuit, then." Dudley says, his eyes alive with the prospect of heroism.

"Some would consider it so."

"Perhaps I should become one, then?"

"That is dependent upon many factors, Mr Dudley." Cromwell continues, "The road to gain swords is a long and difficult one - for you must become not merely proficient, but highly capable, in a number of disciplines - and not merely fighting. You must learn to be multilingual - both fluently and colloquially, you must learn the highest of courtly manners, and also the importance of knowledge, self-control and - above all - the acceptance that your Mission may make the cruellest of demands upon you. I am sure you are aware of my reputation at Court?"

He nods.

"If you wish to make the attempt - you should know that the number of Silver Swords is never large; and, for every youth that succeeds in claiming swords, there are many more who have failed to do so. The work is hard, and mistakes are harshly punished; while failure results in expulsion. Furthermore, you are not granted the gift of choice should you gain swords. Only a very few are sent to protect the royal courts; most are assigned to specific protective tasks in the wider world - and circumstances of birth do not determine the mission that you are given. I guard the Court of England, yet I am base-born. There is an Itinerant Silver Sword in the Low Countries who is the son of a Count."

"My father wishes me to undertake higher learning - perhaps upon the continent, for I am a junior son and thus not in line to inherit. Therefore he is intent that I must gain honours by other means than by birth. There is an excellent university in Milan - thus it would not bemuse my father if I stated a wish to go there."

"If you do so, then you must also consider that you shall not be permitted any contact with the outside world for the duration of your time at the House, for its location is a close-guarded secret. Furthermore, you must give up your name - you shall not be Robert Dudley; instead you shall be 'Robert of Warwick', or 'Robert of London' - depending upon the place you claim to have come from. I did so without hesitation, for I had no strong ties to family. Once you emerge, assuming you gain swords, you shall be able to reclaim your name should you wish to - and some do, as I did. Others do not. If your father expects a glittering career for you; with all the associated fame that such a career attracts, then he may attempt to prevent you from severing all ties, as entry to the House demands."

This time, Dudley is quiet for several minutes, and it is clear that he is giving Cromwell's words a great deal of thought. He looks across at the Lady Elizabeth, then at Cromwell, then at me; and finally speaks, "I thought it to be a grand adventure - but you have shown me that it is far more than that; it is a calling - a great service to all men. If it is hard, then I welcome it, for I am but a frivolous youth - therefore I should be grateful if you could aid me in securing entry to the House. I wish to try for swords."

Cromwell smiles, "Then your motives for doing so are better than mine. I entered the House in order to seek vengeance." He rises from his chair, causing Dudley to do the same, "I shall write to the Grand Master of the Order on the morrow, and dispatch it to Milan with all haste. Prospective students are escorted to the House by a serving Silver Sword - and an Itinerant shall be sent to do so if my recommendation is accepted - but if it is not, I shall be informed by letter. Assuming the former outcome, he shall come to me first, and then I shall introduce him to you. I cannot set a date by which time this shall happen - but it would be wise to lay the foundations of your potential departure as soon as you may."

Appreciating that the interview is at an end, Dudley bows, "Thank you, my Lord. I shall await your further advice."

He waits until Dudley has departed, and waits for a suitable interval of time before the Lady Elizabeth can follow. As soon as we are sure we shall not be disturbed, he turns to me, "If you were wondering how best to separate the youth and the girl, I think that the solution has just presented itself. It is rare for swords to become available for the final Trials in intervals of less than six years - the gap has been known to be as long as ten. I was most fortunate to be obliged to wait only for four."

"Do you think that the High shall accept him, then?"

"On the basis of what you have told me?" Cromwell turns to me, "Yes."

* * *

I am not particularly interested in _la chasse_ , so my attendance at such outings is largely for the enjoyment of the ride, and I remain well back while those with more enthusiasm for chasing down fleeing animals lead the pack. My aversion was once based upon sheer inability, for I was a hopeless rider; but nowadays I am much more confident in the saddle, and I find it enjoyable to test my skills in the field. With government work largely in abeyance thanks to our distance from London, there is not much else to do. Even the one council meeting that we have held during our stay achieved almost nothing of real use other than to look as though we were actually doing something.

Cromwell's letter was dispatched to the House a week ago, and I was startled to learn that he did not merely add his own recommendation, but also stated that it was based upon my observations of the youth's attempt to defeat a ravener, and my discovery of his ability to sense ichor, "I think you still underestimate how much your skills as a Second are valued by the Order, Richie," He said at the time, "The High respects your opinion as much as he respects mine."

Despite using the network of Spies to deliver the missive, it shall be at least four weeks before we shall have an answer, and so we must now wait. Cromwell is quite confident that our joint recommendation shall secure Dudley's place at the House - though, of course, any progress made while there shall be entirely upon his own initiative.

He is with the leading pack of hunters, I note - for his prowess as a rider is well known - and they are leaving many of the rest of us behind, for we are far less daring in our choice of path. Most of the Ladies are certainly further back, as the Queen is amongst them, and she is merely with the hunt to enjoy the ride - as I am. The King, much to his disgust, is also being kept back from the fray, though he at least appreciates that his status ensures that he cannot take such risks. That his father did is all very well, but his father was regularly injured - and it has to be said that he was never the same after the bad fall at the joust that left him insensible for over an hour, and opened the old wound on his leg. Queen Jane is quite determined that Edward shall not meet a similar fate - though she is wise enough to ensure that he is surrounded by men known for their sporting prowess, and not by women.

The hunt is not particularly successful - largely, I think, because of the enormous decimation of edible creatures that took place before we arrived - and we adjourn to a wide clearing where a meal has been set under a sequence of awnings. Cromwell and I are seated close to the high table, by virtue of our Court ranks, but I find, to my dismay, that we are also rather closer to the Queen's ladies than I should like, for we can overhear their conversation; or, rather, can overhear just the one.

"I heard that he is most handsome, and I am very keen to seek him out!" Miss Howard's voice is light, prattling and superficial - as is she, alas.

"Hush, Kitty!" One of the senior ladies, Lisbet Jerningham, admonishes, "Such talk is not appropriate!"

"But he _is_!" she protests, pouting, "And what else is there to do but embroidery? I wish that I could dance instead - dancing is most preferable to being perched atop a horse until I smell like one!"

"It does not do to be so loose, Kitty. Virtue above all - for what are we without it?" Lady Latimer whispers across to her.

"And what of _you_?" Miss Howard hisses back, "You and the lusty Lord Admiral?" Despite her _sotto voce_ , her accusation startles me, for the Lord Admiral, recently appointed to that post, is Thomas Seymour. Perhaps, in his failure to attain senior posts in government, he now seeks instead wealth - for it is well known that, thanks to her sequence of widowhoods, Lady Latimer is one of the richest women in England. Cromwell, seated on the other side of me, gives no indication that he has heard the whispered statement.

Before Lady Latimer can respond, Lady Rochford intervenes, "Enough, Miss Howard. Still your flapping tongue, or you shall spend this evening in the State Apartments with nothing but embroidery to occupy you."

She falls silent at once - for tonight is our last night at Kenilworth, and shall be celebrated with a great feast, and an equally great deal of dancing.

Our ride back to the Castle is a little less pleasant, for the weather has turned, and clouds are starting to draw in with alarming speed. While I do not envisage a storm, it is clear that there shall be rain soon, and none of the party wishes to return to their quarters in dripping clothes. As we are riding a little way aside from most, I turn to Cromwell, but he speaks first, "Interesting little conversation, wasn't it?"

So he _did_ hear it. Why am I surprised? He is, and has always been, a master of inscrutability, "If Miss Howard is correct, then it seems that the younger Seymour is keen to gain advancement through wealth if he cannot gain it through appointments."

"He is the Lord Admiral now. God above, what more does he want?"

"To equal his brother." I answer, "You are firstborn, Thomas - even if you had little or nothing to inherit - and thus you do not see the rivalry that can arise between elder and younger brothers in families of means. For those of us who are not the firstborn, our prospects are weak in comparison to those born ahead of us, for we are not blessed with an inheritance and must find our way in the world ourselves. You have only to look to Miss Howard to see the impact such a state can have. Her father was one of the lesser siblings in a brood of 21 children, and thus she is far poorer than her illustrious name suggests. It is the wealth of her distant relations that keep her in fine garments, for she is all that remains of that once-great house at Court, and it would not do for her to be in threadbare gowns."

Cromwell smiles, then, "Ah, I think it is likely the lack of an inheritance, rather than the lack of an elder brother, that inspires my ignorance of such matters. The most I stood to gain was a tavern, and my father's bad reputation."

I feel a little guilty for making an assumption without evidence, "Perhaps he loves her." Though I find that my voice reflects my doubts.

"I suspect he loves her money chests and land holdings rather more." Cromwell adds, dryly.

We are fortunate to reach the stables before the rain arrives, though the weather has become rather cool, and we are all grateful to return indoors to the rooms that were, until recently rather uncomfortably warm, but are now welcomingly so. As we shall not be gathering in the Great Hall for another two hours at least, I find that a number of papers that have inconsiderately arrived upon the table in my quarters during my absence are more than sufficient to occupy what might otherwise have been a rather dull period with little to do but look out of the window at thick drizzle, or try to find something to read.

Tonight is to be the most glittering function of the entire progress, so I have taken care to ensure that the finest of my garments have been kept for it. While I am not quite as devoted to sober robes as Cromwell, I have taken to wearing such garments, largely thanks to my seniority. That said, now that I am the Lord Privy Seal, I am entitled to wear fabrics and colours normally permitted to those of much higher rank - indeed, all that is forbidden to me now is the royal purple, and the fur of the black genet. Consequently, the doublet is a rich, dark blue velvet trimmed with gold thread embellishments and slashed with satin in a complimentary paler blue that is not too ostentatious, while the Simarre is black, falls to my ankles, and is trimmed with sable. I wear this only for the most celebrated occasions, in order to avoid too much comment about flaunting my rank. Regardless of who sits upon the throne, spite and jealousy is still very much a staple of life at Court.

It seems quite remarkable, after a long sequence of enormous meals served to us here, that the array of victuals could be improved upon - but the degree of ceremony that accompanies it is almost ridiculous, as we are seated to await the first remove, which is accompanied into the Hall by trumpets and kettledrums. The finest dishes are, of course, served to the King and the Queen Regent, surrounded by the most senior lords of the Court. We who are highest placed on the Council are served next, and the dishes set before us are only a little less elaborate, or expensive. Lesser members of the Court are obliged to watch us consume these delicacies as their own meals are considerably more modest, but nonetheless, the sheer quantity of victuals is quite astounding - and, I must admit, rather scandalous. I suspect such largesse shall not be continued once we have returned to London.

After a long day in the saddle, I am ravenous, and more than content to make my choice of the vast array available, while Cromwell is rather more judicious in his selections. Paget sits opposite, and picks at the victuals, while I can see Northumberland, seated at the top table by virtue of his Dukedom, grasps great handfuls which he then attacks most heartily with his knife.

The conversation at the tables is largely neutral, for we are too far away from London to hear the sorts of rumours that drive factional loyalties; and - for this night, at least - there is a sense of rather odd contentment amongst those who feast. We are well fed, and soon there shall be dancing. How trivial it all seems; but I am grateful for that sense of freedom from the cares and burdens of State.

Again, we withdraw to a banqueting hall to graze upon sweetmeats, savoury fancies and sweet wines while the remains of the feast is voided, and the room prepared for music and dance. Before this is to happen, however, the Queen Regent's ladies, partnered with some of the King's Gentlemen, shall perform a short masque to entertain the Courtiers, and thus all but Miss Jerningham are absent from the Regent's side as we attempt to find sufficient appetite to enjoy the delicacies set out for our attention.

Once seated upon our return, I note that Cromwell seems rather wistful, and I look at him, most bemused, "What is it?"

"I was reminiscing." He admits, "For a moment, it was as though we were in the Great Hall at Hampton Court, and I participated in such fancies as this."

" _You_ performed in a masque?" I stare at him, startled, "When?"

"Long ago, Richie - long before you entered Court service. So long ago, in fact, that I cannot even recall the part I played, other than that it required me to dress in a very flowing robe of green, and wear a ridiculous mask that was - I think - stuck all over with oak leaves, or they may have been made of paper. I think I must have been playing the Green King, or some similar creature of folklore. It was while I was still very recently arrived, and was one of Wolsey's men. Consequently, I had not achieved the degree of loathing that I was later to inspire, and was welcome to participate in such performances."

The masque is a simple affair which has no real plot - but serves merely as an opportunity for the participants to show their skills at dancing, for the footwork is remarkably intricate. They are not costumed, nor are they concealed, and I notice that Lady Latimer has been partnered with the Lord Admiral. Despite obvious attempts to pretend otherwise, they are singularly close - which is rather unfortunate given that the Lady has not yet completed mourning for her late husband. Surreptitious glances around the hall reveal that I am most certainly not the only one who has noticed, though the expressions dictate whether the individuals are scandalised or merely jealous.

Somerset, I note, looks distinctly unimpressed, while the Regent watches with a rather mixed expression - one that seems to express hope of happiness for the couple, but also mild disappointment that they have made their intentions so clear at Court despite the Lady still being in mourning - a situation that shall remain for several months yet. Beside her, however, his Majesty is watching quite delightedly, for he enjoys the younger Seymour's company and is happy for him. I suspect that, should permission be required, it shall not be withheld, mourning period or no.

The masque at an end, others get up to dance, though I note that Cromwell is quite relieved not to be required to escort the Regent again, as Somerset is doing so instead, "I have not forgotten the time that I was accused of seeking the hand of the Lady Mary," he admits, quietly, "I have no wish to be accused of attempting the same with Her Majesty. I may have her respect and trust, but I do not have her heart - for that belongs still to the late King." He sighs, then, "As mine still belongs to my late wife." For a moment, he looks more sad than I have ever seen him - but then he seems to shake himself, and is all smiles once more, "I think I shall away, Richie - the journey south begins on the morrow, and I cannot be certain that the unfortunate fool assigned to pack my belongings has managed to do so without forgetting at least one stocking or shirt. I shall see you then." He briefly rests a hand upon my shoulder as he rises, then turns to bow to the King and Regent before he departs.

* * *

We have taken the greatest of care to ensure that those who opened their doors to us on the way north are not required to do likewise on the way south. It shall take our northward-bound hosts years to recover their losses, I fear; as shall those who await us as we return to London. The journey shall not be as leisurely, however, and we should be back at Whitehall in a month - the Palace sweetened and ready for re-occupation.

Other than that lone ravener that accosted the Lady Elizabeth and Mr Dudley in the gardens at Kenilworth, we have been untroubled by demonic incursions - but then, even had there been a normal population of the creatures, we have not stayed in any place for long enough to attract one.

As we approach another grand house just outside the county of Berkshire, Paget takes us aside, "His Majesty has asked that those of us in the Council should move on as soon as possible, in order to ensure that all is prepared for his arrival, so we have his consent to depart early tomorrow while the Court shall rest for a week."

Cromwell nods, "Good - I think that to be a wise strategy; for I have no doubt that we shall find that the amount of work we expected to be carried out shall be half-done at best. The offices have not had Mr Wriothesley overseeing their activities for several weeks since he came north for the Council meeting."

I snort with amusement at this, for there is a mildly evil glint in his eye that suggests he is amused at the prospect of arriving and watching the clerks running frantically to avoid his noticing that they have not done all that was required of them - for they shall not be expecting us for at least another two weeks.

"I shall send word to Boar to watch over the house, thus they shall still be protected even in our absence." Cromwell advises as Paget retreats, "Much as I would prefer not to have to ride hard, I shall be grateful to return to the offices and see what has occurred while we have been away."

"In which case, I shall speak to the porters and arrange for our baggage to be separated out and forwarded in our wake." I advise, "The sooner it is done, the less likely we are to find ourselves forgotten when the rest of the Council demands the same consideration - though I have no doubt that they shall be far less enthusiastic at the prospect."

Determined to leave as early as we can in the morning, Cromwell also arranges for us to sup in his quarters so that we can retire early rather than wait for the removes to arrive in the Hall - and I seek my bed at least four hours earlier than I have been able to do in some weeks. Despite this, I am most disgruntled to be woken the next morning in the hour before dawn - but nonetheless, the prospect of escaping the crowds for a while to ride ahead, and possibly even reach the outskirts of London by the evening, eases the sourness of my temper.

I am surprised to find, however, that we are not alone, for Paget has arranged to travel with us, though no one else seems keen to be awake at such an hour. Despite being aware of our clandestine occupations, he is not unarmed himself; and having already seen them, does not state overtly that our weapons are rather unusual in design, instead being visibly relieved that we have also ensured that our weaponry is within reach - for we are to travel without guards.

We move out in the mists of the early dawn, grateful for the paved roadway that shall lead us home to London, and keep the horses at a brisk, but not fast, pace. While Cromwell and I cannot plan for matters of a demonic nature as our companion's knowledge of our world is light at best and we have no wish to overly alarm him, there is still much to be discussed in terms of what is to be done in the offices. Paget is as intent upon such work as we are, so our conversation is purposeful, but convivial, for he has a remarkably impish sense of humour that matches Cromwell's rather well - and the miles thus seem to speed by.

The journey is broken at a small tavern as the sun reaches it height; a well-tended place that has seen its fortunes rise thanks to the presence of a paved road, and regular passing custom. We are served generous portions from an excellent side of beef that are drenched in a well flavoured gravy thick with onions, accompanied by good bread and very drinkable ale. None of us are dressed too richly, and thus we look to be no more than a group of merchants or traders on their way south, so none pay us any attention.

"How far to London, Sir?" Paget asks the innkeeper. As we are hiding our true station, it seems appropriate to be deferential.

"Another twenty miles, I fear, good Sir." He answers, "Though there is a very good inn just shy of Windsor - the Eagle and Child. They have comfortable rooms, and their victuals are worth the stop. I should know," he adds, a little confidentially, "It is operated by my son."

"In which case, we shall definitely consider doing so." Cromwell adds, setting several Crowns down alongside our payment, "For if it is half as good as here, it shall be more than sufficient for our purposes."

The Innkeeper looks most pleased as he gathers up the gratuity, "Thank you Sirs. Safe journey to you."

"Why did you grant him only a few Crowns?" I ask, as we leave the establishment behind, "It is not like you to be so ungenerous."

"Men of our presumed station would not give more than that - and most would give less. I prefer our movements to be anonymous - and a gratuity of size would be as noticed as none at all."

"You think that we are being followed, my Lord?" Paget asks.

"Not particularly, Mr Paget - but we were watched when we entered, and I think it likely that the men who did so think us not to be worth the bother of waylaying."

"Highway robbery?" Paget looks horrified at the thought.

"Of course. The roads may be paved, and movement may be faster, and easier - but the routes are now well fixed, so why not use them for robbery? The gratuity I left was what is to be expected by men of lesser state who have not yet received the money that they intend to earn from their commerce. They are keen to appear generous, but do not have enough to offer sovereigns or marks. Men of higher means tend not to offer a gratuity at all, for they consider it beneath their station to do so."

"So we have put them off, then?"

"I hope that to be so - but there is always the risk. Those who watched us shall wonder if we are worth the bother of waylaying - but our behaviour was of men who are not."

I hope he is right - the last thing that I would wish for is to have to fight robbers - for that was never the purpose for which our swords were forged.

We arrive - unmolested - at the promised inn just as the sun is disappearing beyond the crenellations of the great Keep of Windsor Castle, which rises from the Town a mile or so away. We could, of course, request succour from there - but Cromwell remains keen to conceal our movements. If we were to arrive at the Castle, then someone would dispatch a messenger on to London, and the news of our return would precede us. He is very keen to surprise the Clerks - rather looking forward to it, in fact, "I have few opportunities to jest, my Lords - permit me the pleasure."

I cannot argue with that.

Not only does the Inn have sufficient rooms to accommodate us, but they are indeed most comfortable, and our supper is fit for a King. By tomorrow, I shall be back in my familiar quarters, and John shall be looking after me again - so I retire to bed in a most contented frame of mind.

* * *

The weather is truly vile as we depart from the Eagle and Child, and commence our final ride back to London. We move at a fair pace, though again not too hard for fear of exhausting our horses. Paget looks most miserable in the wet, and I sympathise, for I am more used to such hard riding than I once was, but I can still recall the discomfort of riding in the rain, and my extreme dislike of doing so. Not that I enjoy it now.

By the time we reach the inn where Cromwell and I habitually stop when travelling from Hampton Court, we are all wet to the skin and shivering. Fortunately, the fire is high, and we are soon becoming warmer as we are served a hot mutton stew with frumenty and some hastily mulled ale. As we sip gratefully at the hot liquid, Paget eyes us both, "You are remarkably habituated to life in the saddle, Gentlemen." He frowns then, "As you were when we were in the first inn - I had not noticed that we were being watched."

"You forget, Mr Paget," Cromwell says, quite casually, as Paget's expression suggests that he might accidentally let our secret slip, "I am not of noble birth - and I grew up in a far less refined world than the one that I now occupy. I have never lost the habit of noticing who is watching as I enter a room that is new to me."

"Is that so? I have heard all kinds of stories, my Lord - but I imagine none of them are true." He continues, smoothly, picking up upon his near error and shifting the focus to conceal it.

"I imagine there are as many that are not as there are that _are_ true." He smiles, "I certainly spent many years upon the continent, and I became fluent in several languages there. I fought in wars, and spent some time apprenticed to the house of Frescobaldi. I learned much there, and more from the work that I undertook before I came to Court. My birth may have been low, but I rose through hard work and knowledge."

"And now you are an Earl, my Lord." Paget smiles, without rancour.

"I am indeed." He nods, "Though I think there are many who would wish that I was not."

We are on familiar roads now as we depart - with quite visible reluctance upon Paget's part - but our pace remains merely brisk, as to go too fast shall merely cause our horses to founder, and the inns that remain on the route that we are following are of such poor aspect that stopping at one is an act of desperation rather than pleasure.

Paget has gone very quiet, and I am not much better, for I am shivering quite violently, despite the relative mildness of the September air. Our garments had not truly dried while we were indoors, and the rain now has soaked them again - but at least there are too few other people of consequence in the Palace to which we are bound to make it impossible to heat sufficient water for a bath; God, I shall need one, for I am splattered with mud, drenched, stiff and quite wretched-looking. My companions are not much better - and my primary concern is that I do not catch a chill.

I have not been so grateful to see the roofs of Whitehall since I was obliged to walk two miles back there from Campofregoso's house - exhausted and in pain after a ghastly period of imprisonment and torture. The drizzle has become steady rain, and my eagerness to get indoors, and warmed up, has become almost an all-consuming obsession. Yes - a hot bath would be most welcome, and some mulled ale. And some pottage…

I am still turning over my wants in my head as we clatter into the Mews, and hand our equally wet horses over to the grooms to be tended to, "Look after them well." Cromwell says, as the youths lead them away, "They have worked hard for us this day." By the way he is speaking, it is clear that he is trying as hard as he can not to sound like his teeth are chattering.

James, Cromwell's manservant, is not as attuned to his needs as William - his longest serving manservant - was; but John has already assembled dry clothes, which are warming by the fire, and a goodly sized tub of hot water that steams visibly. My relief at the thought of soaking in that water is tempered by a slight nervousness that I might fall asleep in it - for I am very tired. Consequently, we have not arranged to sup together, for I suspect that Cromwell is even tireder than I am.

If there is any pleasure greater than to soak in hot water when one is wet and cold, then I am hard put to describe it; at least, that is my thought as I sink into its embrace and sigh with relief at finally being warm again - submerged to my neck, my head resting upon a folded cloth. My only requirement now is to remind myself, over and over, not to fall asleep.

The sound of footsteps approaching my chamber does not perturb me - after all it is not as though John has never seen me bathe before - but the door does not open, and the footsteps halt.

"John? Are you without?" I do not like to be kept unaware if people are in my apartments - but the lack of an answer from my manservant leaves me even more uneasy.

My eyes widen in horror, as - from no apparent source - I again feel a steely sharpness at my back, and then there is the hideous sense of a blade driving its way through my body. I feel myself being forced upwards as it travels through me - inch by tortuous inch - and I scream aloud in agony and terror as that ghastly point suddenly erupts from my chest. In an instant, I am no longer in water - I am in blood…my own blood…and that Red-Armoured knight is inexplicably behind me. Where in God's name did he come from? How did he get into my chambers unseen and unheard? Oh God…Oh Christ…the pain…

The door to the chamber hurls open; and, in that instant, it is gone - the blade, the agony, the blood and the knight, "My Lord! What ails you?" John's expression reflects what must have been the most ghastly sound of my screams and - quite naturally - he has assumed that I am being murdered, "What has happened?"

For a moment, I am utterly at a loss to explain what has occurred - for it is as though I have dreamed it. Perhaps I did; I cannot begin to tell, but I force myself to calm my breathing, and hope that not too much water has slopped out of the tub and onto the expensive carpet, "Forgive me, John. I am most tired - I think I must have dozed, and thought myself to be drowning."

My eagerness to escape from the water is now as great as my initial eagerness to enter it, and John hastily fetches a sheet so that I can rise and dry myself. With his assistance I am quickly dressed again, and I am most grateful as he arranges for the tub to be emptied and removed. The supper that has been set for me in the main chamber, however, has lost its appeal entirely, and I can do no more than pick at it.

I must send word to Cecil. No - I must go myself. I have to - but when? There is much to be done…and the Court shall return in a fortnight, at which point the works shall become almost insurmountable in quantity. Cecil can only do so much, for he cannot see what is in my head - and a description is no substitute for memory. For a moment, I am so fearful that I find my eyes are filling with tears.

 _Go to Grant's Place Richard - for God's sake. This cannot continue_. Wolsey's voice is rather kinder than usual - perhaps he knows that I am fighting to comprehend what is happening to me, and the horror of my strange nightmare in the bath has frightened me more than I am willing to admit - almost even to myself.

"I shall send word to William to make some initial searches, Eminence." I advise him, picking at a leg of fowl in the hope that taking up a morsel of meat might inspire me to eat it, "Then I can join him as soon as time permits, and identify what is happening to me."

 _Do it. Or I shall make Thomas tie you to your horse and lead you there._

"In that case, I shall do it first thing on the morrow."

* * *

I break my fast this morning with rather better appetite than I experienced last night. John has secured some slices of cold beef, fresh baked bread and butter mixed with thyme. That, and a large cup of small ale, proves to banish the last vestiges of horror that linger from that inexplicable waking nightmare last night - and I am already planning what I shall write in my letter to Cecil asking him to begin his investigations.

My sword is back on its mounts on the overmantel, and I look up at it, wishing that I could wear it at all times to protect myself; but how can I protect myself from an apparition - even one that seems able to cause me pain and torment? Furthermore, once his Majesty returns to Whitehall, I shall not be permitted to wear it upon my person anyway. As it was with his father, so it is with him.

I am halfway through my missive, still picking at the remains of the beef, when John answers a knock upon the door to reveal Cromwell, who has someone with him. The man is a stranger to me, but he moves with that assurance that I see in Cromwell, and in Boar, Hare and Bull. He is a Silver Sword - the High must have accepted our recommendation to admit Robert Dudley, then.

"This is Hound, Richie." Cromwell's voice catches slightly as he mentions the sigil of the one who held the blades last - a friend who gained them on the same day that he won the Raven blades - "He has come with a letter from the High - and to escort Mr Dudley to Milan."

Hound smiles, and bows, "I am honoured to meet you, my Lord. Your reputation is quite unsurpassed."

It is impossible to know from where he comes - as his English is untinged by a foreign accent. I know that all those who win blades must prove themselves to be fluent in the four most common languages of Europe - and at least one Classical language - but it is only now that I realise that they must do so with such fluency that they can pass for a native of the land in which that tongue is spoken.

"Thank you - I am most grateful for your compliment, though I find that I am not perhaps as magnificent as the House thinks me to be."

"You are the man who found the Fires - without which the world would have fallen into diabolical slavery and anguish. I think your reputation is absolutely deserved." Hound counters, smiling, "Though your modesty does you credit."

"Modesty?" I ask, "That would come as a great surprise to the rest of the Court."

Fortunately Hound appreciates that I am jesting, and smiles, "I shall be residing at Grant's Place until the Court returns - so if you have any papers to dispatch, I should be most happy to deliver them. I believe you have an apprentice in residence?"

"I do indeed - on both counts. If you would be willing to abide for an hour or so, I shall have a letter for you to dispatch to Mr Cecil. I am afraid that I have rather little remaining in terms of victuals, but I can ask John to secure more for you?"

He bows, "That is most kind, but I have matters of importance to discuss with Raven in confidence. Thus I shall return in two hours to collect the letter, if that is suitable?"

For a moment, I expect Cromwell to intervene, and advise Hound that there are no secrets between us - but he does not, which surprises me - and, I am embarrassed to find, disturbs me somewhat. If they are discussing matters without my knowledge, might those matters include me? Have I perhaps offended in some manner? Do they know what is happening to me - and feel that I am no longer reliable as a Second?

Or perhaps it is nothing to do with me at all, and I am being an utter fool. I suspect the latter.

As they turn to depart, I am suddenly quite fearful to be left alone, and I must fight with myself not to plead with them to stay - what if that red Knight comes back? The thought of being skewered again is dreadful, and I am rather afraid that he shall return as soon as they are gone.

Once by myself, I push such thoughts from my mind as best as I can, and concentrate instead on dredging through my memories of each ghastly encounter in order to give Cecil as much evidence to work from as possible. My descriptions are comprehensive in their details, and I note down, as best I can, where I was - and what I was doing - on each occasion upon which I was accosted. That said, there seems to be no pattern at all, so I am at a loss as to what he can do.

Such is my industry that I am startled when there is another knock upon the door, and Hound returns - for I am quite convinced that only a matter of mere minutes has passed. Fortunately, I have completed the letter - which has stretched to two pages of paper, covered on both sides - and am merely obliged to fold and seal it, before addressing it to Cecil, and handing it to Hound.

"Ensure that he receives this as soon as you are alone together." I advise him, "It is most important, for it contains instructions upon a matter to be investigated."

Hound nods, "You have my word, Mr Rich." Like all who are engaged in Silver Sword business, he refers to me not by my Court Titles, but by name - as they all seem convinced that this is more illustrious in their terms than any honour that his Majesty can bestow.

Taking the letter, he departs, and I go in search of Cromwell; wondering if he shall share the matters that they discussed - and hopeful that he might.

James admits me to his quarters, where he is sitting by the fire, apparently lost in thought.

"Hound has departed, Thomas - and he has taken a letter to William asking him to commence investigations." I know that he does not need me to describe the matter under investigation.

He looks up, "That is good to know, Richie. These strange attacks upon you are most concerning, particularly as we cannot identify the source of them. The more that we know, the more likely it shall be that we can protect you. I have lost one of our partnership thanks to Tom's death, and I could not countenance losing you."

I frown at him, "What is it?"

Rather than demur, he looks into the fire, sadly, "The Grand Master is dying."

Hastily, I seat myself opposite, "Is there anything that we must do - or that we _can_ do?"

"That, I do not yet know - for his final wishes shall not be communicated until he has passed. Hound, however, has advised me that already the Masters are meeting to choose one of their own to step into his place - but also that he is likely to make a specific request."

I look at him, nervously - for I can guess what that request shall be.

As he looks at me, and sees my expression, he knows what I am thinking, and he nods, "He shall almost certainly ask me to return to Milan to take up a post as a Master."

"And you shall go?" I ask, fearful now, for with matters as they are, I have no wish to attempt to combat these strange attacks upon me with a new Silver Sword at my side.

"Until the matter pertaining to your safety is settled? No. Until the King is secure upon his throne? Again - no. But after?" He looks at me, and sighs, "Yes. I shall go."

I stare at him helplessly - for what right do I have to demand that he stay? His first duty is to the Order, and his second is to his Mission. Once that second duty is ended, then he shall obey the first - and it is only right that he should do so, for his skill and experience as a Silver Sword is highly valuable. It must be retained and shared with future Silver Swords.

But what of me? I must stay - I cannot go to Milan, for there is no provision for the training of Seconds. I must instead remain here, in England, with a new Silver Sword. I struggled to accept such a thing when first he told me that the High wished him to go back to the House - but now that he has made it clear to me that his service to the Order overrides his friendship to me, I know that I cannot stop him, and I cannot bear it.

Immediately, he reaches out and rests his hand upon my shoulder, "Forgive me, Richie - I do this not because I have no wish to remain, but because what I know, what I have learned, must be shared with those who shall follow me. I have fond memories of the House - even after the loss of Joachim - and I would wish to spend my final years there. I shall resign my court appointments, and all my properties shall pass to Gregory and Elizabeth, while the children of my siblings shall all receive generous portions. For myself, I shall travel across the Continent as though I were an Itinerant, and…"

"Do not say that to me!" I shout, suddenly, "Are you so intent upon the pleasure of reclaiming that which was a part of your youth that you would abandon me?" I am on my feet, angry and hurt beyond belief, "After all that we have seen? Fought? Suffered together? Do I truly mean so little to you that you delightedly plan your journey to a place where I shall not see you again? Ever? If I thought when first you told me that you planned to retire to Milan that I could not serve another Silver Sword - then I know now that I could not! I should rather leave Court and never speak of, or associate with, the Order ever again! Do not ask me to remain here when you leave!"

"Richie…"

"Do not 'Richie' me now!" my anger and pain is such that I have no wish to listen to reason, "You intend to go, and I must stay - I have no other friend but you! The Court laughs at us and calls us David and Jonathan - but are we not so? I cannot remain here if you are not! I cannot!" and then - like an utter fool, I am in tears again. The first time we exchanged words upon this matter, it had seemed remote - something that could not happen, for there was too much at stake; but now, matters are beginning to settle, and it is clear that the reasons for him to remain are dwindling. And then he shall go, and I shall be friendless…

He rises and embraces me, and I sob stupidly into the sable trim of his simarre, "You are, and shall always be, the dearest friend I have ever known. We have shared more than I shared with Joachim, and you know that I love you. There is still much to be done - and I shall not leave until all is secured. But you must accept your own mission, Richie. You must. The task of a Second is the more cruel, for the life of a Silver Sword can be short - and it is rare for a Second to remain with the same Silver Sword for the entirety of his career - you have been more fortunate than most."

"You saved my soul, Thomas," I whimper, "I was becoming a vile man with nothing but dishonourable reputation to bequeath to posterity - no matter how much wealth I accumulated to bequeath to my children. All that I have become, I owe to you - I beg you, do not leave me abandoned and friendless…I could not endure to be alone again."

"No, Richie - all that you have become, you owe to your own actions. I did not prevail upon you to save me when you found me dying in the offices - you did so of your own free will. Your decision to become my Second was yours alone; again, of your own will. You found honour, and courage, within yourself - and that courage shall sustain you when the time comes to greet your new Silver Sword. Besides, the Order is far more efficient in the carrying of letters than any messenger - and Milan is hardly the moon, is it?"

It is a weak jest - but I find it in myself to accept it for what it is, and stand up again, "I am sorry - it has been a long time since last I surrendered to self-pity."

"It was justified." Cromwell smiles at me, "But you forget - there is still a task ahead of us before I can go. We must find that which is attacking you, and bring it to an end. If you are threatened, then not even a direct order from the High would make me go - last wish or not."

I cuff at my blubbered eyes, and smile, "I should like to see him try."

"Let us see what Mr Cecil can uncover in the Library. I have not sensed ichor, so I cannot fathom what is happening to you. Until we know what it might be, the Mission remains in operation."

In spite of myself, I shudder. The Mission has always been about protection - and now it seems that the protection must be for me.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Another short historical note_. In spite of his dour reputation nowadays, it's known that Cromwell did indeed participate in masques when he was new at court amongst Wolsey's entourage, though alas it's not recorded what parts he played.

John of Gaunt's magnificent great hall at Kenilworth still stands to this day - though it is, alas, ruinous: lacking both a roof and a floor, so you have to stand in the undercroft and look up. But the remains are enough to give an idea of just how grand a space it once was.


	16. Departures

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Catalina - I really appreciate your comments, and I'm glad you're enjoying this. That goes for everyone who's reading along. Thank you!

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

 _Departures_

I am less unnerved by the time that the Court finally returns to Whitehall after three weeks, rather than the two that we were anticipating. As he hoped, Cromwell was able to startle the clerks by walking into the offices entirely unannounced; though, to his surprise - as much as theirs, I think - they were not half as much behind as we thought they might be.

The work that had built up in our absences has been cleared, and we are ready to begin anew as their Majesties resume their rule at the seat of Government, and already Wriothesley has provided Cromwell with a note from the Queen Regent setting out her thoughts for economies to reduce the crippling debts that were left behind by her late husband. I note that there are some additional statements included in Somerset's hand - all of which are either endorsing, or additional to his sister's. Fortunately, rather than present his Majesty with a _fait accompli_ , the Queen Regent and Somerset have ensured that King Edward has seen, and discussed, the plans - his signature affixed to the bottom of the page, with the small legend, "Let it be done." Clearly starting as they mean to go on.

And so we are sitting in Cromwell's office, Wriothesley, Griffin, Paget, Cromwell and I, to discuss how to implement the suggested economies - and perhaps institute further ones of our own where this is possible. As much of the dreadful expense was in relation to a determination on King Henry's part to dazzle and impress, not to mention the sheer quantity of fabrics and jewels required to cover his enormous frame, we are already certain that we can reduce the outgoings for silks, satins, taffetas and furs quite considerably; while the need for new jewels is now almost at a stop - for the Queen is quite content to wear what she already has.

Besides, why buy new ones when many more shall be given as gifts?

Equally, the quantities of victuals that form such magnificent displays - but are so utterly ridiculous given how little of it is eventually eaten - shall be reduced. We all know that the bulk of what was set before Henry's Court was wasted - for there was frequently so much left that it was spoiled beyond contemplation before it could be delivered to the poor of any nearby parishes. No amount of generosity compensates for the consequences of eating spoiled food, after all.

Over the space of three hours, we consider, calculate and reconsider - until we find that we are in a position to begin clearing the staggering sums that we owe to so many creditors. There are few monastic houses left to dissolve - and thus we resort to tightening our belts. Better late than never, I suppose - though even at our most ungenerous in terms of available funds for royal expenses, the debts shall not be entirely settled for at least five years - possibly even as many as ten. More, if someone opts to declare war on somebody else.

"Perhaps we should place a tax upon nobility." Cromwell grunts, cynically, "The higher your rank, the more you pay." Being an Earl, he can safely say this - for he would not be exempt and he is one of the wealthiest men in the Realm, but he knows that it would be impossible to tax the nobles of England: they would refuse immediately, and the plots to remove him would begin anew. Taxes are expected to be the burden of the poor, it seems.

As we depart the hall to dine, I dispatch a steward to the gardens with a note for the head Gardener in hopes of securing some more of the fine display of late roses to send to my wife, who is currently in residence at my Manor in Felsted - which is her favourite of our homes. Regardless of my nervous fear that there shall be more visitations from that red Knight, I intend to travel home at Christmastide this year, and I have written another long letter telling her all manner of tales of the Progress, and also what little gossip I am able to acquire - before advising, at the end, that I shall be with the family by mid-December.

It seems that the desire to economise has already come into effect, for the tables are set far more sparsely than once they were - but even so there is more than enough for all who are present, despite the disappointed expressions. The matter of far greater interest, however, is the rumour that is already spreading across the gathering - that the Lady Latimer is now Mrs Thomas Seymour. Judging by the thunderous expression upon Somerset's face, I suspect that the rumour is no mere gossip; not to mention the obvious absence of both parties from the hall. Even the Regent looks most discomfited - for she knows as well as any that a woman is not free to embark upon a new marriage after being widowed in the way that a man is all but entitled to do. Edward, on the other hand, is cheerful; and I imagine that the younger Seymour sought his blessing directly, in order to stymie any attempt by Somerset to prevent the match.

Northumberland, on the other hand looks most pleased, for his dislike of the Seymours is hardly a secret. Even the merest whiff of scandal is eagerly devoured, and his enjoyment at the embarrassment of the likely clandestine marriage could not be more clear; though he is close enough to where I am sitting for me to overhear his rather loud voice as he boasts to another courtier that his youngest is set to travel abroad to study in Milan. Even if Mr Dudley does not yet know that our recommendation has been accepted at the House, he has taken care to ensure that there is no surprise should he be fortunate. I wonder if he has been told yet - but then I realise that that would not be so. After our argument, Cromwell is keen to ensure that I am never closed out of any decision or activity that involves Order business. When Dudley is informed, it shall be in the presence of The Raven, the Hound, and me.

The afternoon shall be spent in Council, for we have much to discuss thanks to the time spent away from Whitehall. Even now, the novelty of being in a chamber that does not reek of rotting flesh, disease and death is still remarkably profound, and I am sure Cromwell is revelling in the pleasure of knowing that he can reach the end of the meeting without being struck or insulted.

"Gentlemen," The Regent commences, "I am sure that the news cannot have escaped you - for it is all about the Court in the form of rumours; but the Lord Admiral and Lady Latimer were married while we were in Berkshire." There is no disguising her annoyance - for it is almost certain that her consent was not sought. As one of her Ladies, Lady Latimer should have done so - but left it to her betrothed to seek the King's consent instead, "I hope you shall join me in granting our warmest wishes for their married life together."

Not quite spoken through gritted teeth, but I think it is merely because Edward is present that she avoids doing so.

"And I have granted them monies to renovate the Palace of Chelsea to be their home - my wedding gift to them." Edward adds, joyfully - eagerly unaware of the political ramifications of the union to which he has granted his blessing. He is only nine, of course. He shall learn in time.

Cromwell presents the document that we formulated this morning, setting out where, and how, we shall economise. Much of it is merely an extension of the paper that was supplied to us by the Regent, but where she suggested possibilities, we have converted these into plans that are feasible and workable. It is most strange to be doing this - for we are used to that endless requirement; the King Wills - the King Must Have. Now, however, the King's wishes are limited by the cost of that which he desires.

"If England is to become a great power within Europe," Somerset says, quietly, "then we must be seen as a nation that has the wherewithal to do business with our neighbours fairly and equitably. Previously, our dealings with our neighbours has been remarkably capricious - and relied upon great displays of wealth the we could ill afford." He turns to his sister, "Forgive me, Majesty - for it is not my intention to deliberately cast aspersions upon the reign of our late Lord, but if we are to restore the economic strength of our nation, then we must consider the past critically, in order not to make the same errors again."

The Regent smiles, "I am not offended, my Lord of Somerset. I have seen the papers that Mr Wriothesley kindly prepared that showed exactly the condition of our finances. I cannot claim to understand the figures, for I am uneducated - but Mr Paget aided me with a series of most helpful explanations - and I know that we must act to restore the currency, for it has been debased so often that it is all but worthless."

"In which case," Northumberland says, with a ghastly superiority, "We must suspend the building of roads; for it is naught but a project to massage the vanity of lesser men."

To my surprise, his words silence the entire table, and all stare at him in astonishment. The roads are essential to ease the movement of people and goods - and thus can serve only to aid our escape from our financial straits through the promotion of trade - and yet Northumberland views them as nothing more than a pointless frippery to raise the undeserved regard of a man he considers to be of too low estate to warrant a seat at the Council table.

As he has always done, in the face of such hostility, Cromwell ignores the statement, and allows matters to continue unhindered - though I note that the King is staring at Northumberland in astonishment; for he is unused to the degree of spite and manoeuvring that exists in the Council; despite the change of monarch at the head of the table.

The elder Dudley seems quite put out that no one has risen to his bait - and does not interrupt again as we continue the meeting. His departure, when we conclude, is also rather hasty. It seems that there has indeed been a change in the atmosphere at the Council Table, but he has not yet noticed.

The gardener is awaiting me when I return to my quarters, and I am very pleased with the selection that he has made. As I reach for the letter to seal it, however, I am suddenly struck by the thought that I have not ended the text with any statement of affection, and I hastily sit down to compose something that shall convey - as best as I can set down - how grateful I am that my good wife has endured my indifference with such forbearance, and that she was still willing to care for me when I discovered my better self and remembered how much our vows meant when we spoke them. Completing the statement - that has now become a paragraph - with a final expression of love, I hastily scatter it with pounce to dry the ink, before blowing away the residue and sealing the document with the impression from my signet ring. If I cannot tell her in person, then this shall serve - I hope - until I can travel to Felsted for Christmastide.

* * *

Northumberland is boasting again, I note - for he believes that Robert Dudley shall be departing shortly to attend the university at Milan. Given his own conceit, the prospect of his son attending such an august establishment is too great an opportunity to let by, and even those who attempt to bask in his reflected glory are becoming rather bored by it.

Hound has returned to the Palace - though none saw him do so - and is now waiting in Cromwell's apartments. The young Mr Dudley is aware, and shall visit us this evening after supper, as he shall depart with Hound on the morrow. Given his father's bombast, I am grateful to make my escape back to my office, where things are quieter, and entirely more orderly in process.

Cromwell is waiting for me when I arrive, and he is holding a slip of paper, "Her Majesty has asked to see us."

"Has she revealed why?"

He shakes his head, "She has not - which suggests a confidential matter that she has no wish to expose to those who gossip."

When we reach the Privy Chamber, and make our bows, Queen Jane bids us sit as she seats herself, "Where is Mr Dudley truly going, Gentlemen? The Lady Elizabeth is almost inconsolable - as though she shall never see him again."

She is, of course, most perceptive to the moods of people, and she is very close to her rather forlorn stepdaughter. It is no surprise that she is aware that all is not what it seems, particularly as she knows of the Order.

Cromwell looks to me, as I witnessed the incident, "It was while we were at Kenilworth, Majesty; I noticed while you were dancing with Thomas that the Lady and Mr Dudley were not in the hall, so I went in search of them - in some respect, perhaps, to act as a chaperone - for I am aware of the unfair reputation that has been applied to her thanks to that which was applied to her mother."

She nods, "Thank you, my Lord - I am grateful."

"When I found them, in the ornamental garden, I noticed as I approached that we had been discovered by a ravener - or, rather, _they_ had."

The Queen's eyes widen in horror, but I continue, hastily, "Before I could intervene, however, Mr Dudley stepped before the Lady Elizabeth and drew his blade to defend her. She knew what it was - but he did not, and yet still he put himself harm's way to protect her. Even as I approached, he fought the vile creature with astonishing determination and ability - though, of course, without a silver blade, he could not dispatch it. It was at that point that I intervened, summoned the Damask Blade, and used it to end the matter. When I explained myself, however, he advised me that the ravener had smelled most foul; and thus we discovered that he had the ability to detect ichor."

And thus she understands - for she knows what this discovery indicates, "So he is not going to the University."

"He has the potential to become a Silver Sword." Cromwell confirms, quietly.

"And that is why the Lady is so disconsolate."

"Indeed so - for to enter the House is to surrender one's identity, and all that one has known from the life they leave behind. Most who gain swords do not return to the life they abandoned - I am the exception rather than the rule in that respect. If he _does_ become a Silver Sword - and I think it highly likely that he has the talent to win swords - it is quite likely that she shall never see him again."

She sighs, "The poor girl - she loves him, you know. She may be but fourteen years of age, but she is wise beyond her years thanks to the vagaries of her life at Court, and Mr Dudley was the one person outside our immediate circle in whom she saw no ulterior motive."

"It is better this way, I think." Cromwell sighs, "But that does not make it easy. She is a remarkable young woman, and does not deserve such sorrow. The activities of demons robbed her of her mother, and now they shall rob her of a decent young man who - I think - could well have made her happy."

"She is the daughter of a King, my Lord." Jane reminds him, "She could not marry a commoner - regardless of the question over her legitimacy."

"But there are two princes ahead of her with a claim to the crown - so what likelihood is there of her being required to take the throne?"I ask, "If we are to set forth a change in the system of government, can we not also permit a change in precedent over who a royal daughter may marry if she is unlikely to be crowned?"

Jane smiles, "I wish that it could be so - but convention demands otherwise. Whether we have the strength to overturn convention remains to be seen - but I would prefer to give her more time. It is not my wish to impose an unwanted marriage upon her - but I have seen too many unfortunate young ladies enter into marriages with carnal intent, only to regret doing so as they have matured, and discovered that their love was no more than calf love that had no true foundation."

"If I may, Majesty," Cromwell says, "Mr Dudley shall depart upon the morrow, and thus shall spend the evening with us - and with his escort - tonight. Perhaps, if she is willing, the Lady might attend? I would suggest Lady Rochford as a chaperone, for her knowledge of the Order shall ensure that no secrets shall be disclosed, and her loyalty to you is unimpeachable."

"An excellent suggestion, my Lord." Jane agrees, "Though it is dependent upon the Lady's wishes. If she prefers not to do so, then I shall not force her."

"Indeed no, that would be most unfair. Extend our invitation, however; and we shall see if it is possible to grant them some time together before he departs. All that passes between them shall be entirely confidential - and we shall not speak of it once the evening is past."

She nods, and rises, indicating that our discussions are at an end, "I shall do so, my Lord. Lady Rochford shall deliver her answer."

* * *

Cromwell, Hound, Lady Jane Rochford and I are seated at the far end of the main chamber of his palatial apartment, engaged in a game of cards, while, at the other end, Robert Dudley and the Lady Elizabeth converse quietly. I think none of us were surprised when Lady Rochford's delivery of an answer was instead the delivery of the Lady herself. I am not sure which is more disconcerting - that we are overseeing a final meeting between two lovelorn young people, or that Lady Rochford is beating us all hands down.

I think, if we listened intently, we could overhear them - but we promised them confidentiality, and thus we do what we can to keep that promise - concentrating instead upon our cards, and talking amongst ourselves between hands. In the years since she forgave us for the dreadful end to her marriage, unhappy though it was, Jane Rochford has proved to be a staunch ally, and her loyalty to Queen Jane is absolute. Even now, she is wearing the small, silver-bladed knife that Cromwell gave her in order to act as a last line of defence should we falter in the face of a demon. The outline of it is just visible beneath the bulky skirt of her heavy, brocaded overgown.

"Forgive me." Hound sighs, eventually, "I am not so fortunate as to be a great Earl, or the Lord Privy Seal, and I am all but penniless. I fear I must withdraw." He smiles as he speaks, for another of the many things that I have learned over the years is that all Silver Swords have the resources of the House to turn to if they require aid - but most do all that they can not to, for it is a matter of pride amongst them to be self sufficient.

We continue for a few more hands, but it is getting late, and Lady Rochford is looking at that expensive venetian clock that sits upon the mantlepiece behind Hound's head, "I fear that we should depart, Gentlemen - much as I wish we could remain; but if we delay much longer, Mistress Ashley shall send one of the stewards in search of her charge, and there shall be a great rumpus when they fail to find her."

Elizabeth's head turns sharply as we push our chairs back to rise - and she knows that there is no more time, "It cannot be so late, Gentlemen - a little longer, surely?"

Cromwell bows deeply to her, "Forgive me, my Lady - I wish that I could permit it, as do we all - but the hour of ten approaches, and soon there shall be people searching for you."

"Robin…" she turns to him, anguished.

"My dearest lady," He says, taking her hand gently, "were it possible to take you with me, then I would do so - but it is not. I am thankful for the time that we have had this night, and - if God is kind to us, perhaps I shall win swords in good time, and maybe even earn the honour to be the Silver Sword at this very Court? It is not my choice - I know and accept it; but to fight against darkness that might destroy all that you love, and even your gentle self, is the greatest service that a man can give to the one that he loves."

She lets out a small sob, and I think we are all close to tears ourselves - for her distress is quite heart wrenching, but Dudley carefully eases off a signet ring that he has upon the third finger of his right hand, "I am told that I must give up my very identity upon entering the House, and I suspect that such sacrifices shall include this - which was given to me by my mother. I treasure it, and I ask you to guard it for me, and pray for my success. No matter what is to come, no matter what I must give up, I shall not forget you, nor shall I cease to love you."

Again, as I look at him, I am struck by the most odd thought - for suddenly I see him for the briefest moment a man grown, tall and strong and bearing the Hawk blades. I shake my head sharply, and blink a few times - and the strange vision is gone. Wishful thinking, I suspect. I have more daughters than I have sons, all of whom are most precious to me; thus I am more affected than most to see the Lady in such distress - and what father does not want the best for his daughters?

The pair - despite their youth - look upon one another with that depth that suggests that their love is no mere calf-love; each instant that passes a world in itself, in which there is no one else but they.

Fortunately, we are not obliged to intervene; for the Lady quietly disengages her hand from his, and clasps his ring tightly to her bosom, "I shall not forget you either, Robin - and I shall marry no man but you. Thus, if I cannot marry you, then I shall never marry; for my heart shall be forever in your keeping."

Without another word, she turns and hurries from the chamber, Lady Rochford in her wake. It is clear to us all that she is fleeing for she cannot continue to be present without weeping, and she has no wish to do so in our presence. For a moment, we are held in absolute silence, for all of us have been moved by her sorrow; but eventually, Dudley attempts to speak, falters, then clears his throat to try again, "Thank you, Gentlemen. I could not have departed without seeing the Lady one last time to bid her farewell. She is indeed dear to me - but, I know that she and I cannot wed, so…" his voice trails off, and Cromwell reaches out to set a hand upon his shoulder. "Rest tonight, Mr Dudley - for tomorrow you embark upon a journey that shall change all that you are forever - and there shall be no going back once it is begun. Be assured that no harm shall come to the Lady Elizabeth, for she is guarded by loyal friends and a loving Queen."

He stands very still for a moment, "If you can, I beg you to try to persuade her to abandon her wish to avoid matrimony with another. I could not countenance her being reduced to the emptiness of spinsterhood for want of marriage to me - for I am truly not worthy of such devotion."

God above - he is nothing like his father. I cannot imagine such modesty coming from Northumberland - and certainly not such unselfishness. Cromwell sighs, "I wish it were possible - but she knows her own mind, and to acquiesce to the will of others is not in her nature. She is very much her father's daughter," he pauses, then smiles a little sadly, "And very much her mother's, too."

There is not much else to be discussed this evening, so I extend my best wishes to Dudley for a safe journey to Milan, and a successful outcome at the House. Thanks to that strange moment of vision earlier this evening, I am quite assured in my mind that he shall not fail in his endeavours - though where it came from, I cannot begin to guess. Better than being stabbed by that red Knight, I suppose.

I am not present when Hound and Dudley depart the following morning, as they intended to do so before dawn. Consequently, I break my fast alone in my chambers, idly wondering what the day shall bring, for there is much to be done. I am briefly roused from my contemplations by a knock upon the door, but it is merely a steward, who hands John a folded note, and I thus resume them.

"My Lord," John interrupts me, discreetly, "It is a letter for you - it bears the seal of Sir Thomas Wroth."

This brightens me at once, for it can only have come from my eldest daughter, Mary, who is married to Wroth. Having birthed her fourth child barely a year ago, perhaps she is expecting another. Pleased, I prise off the wax with my knife and open the missive to see if I am right.

I am not.

 _My Beloved Father,_

 _Please forgive me for being the bearer of most sorrowful news, for I must advise you that our dear mother, your good and loving wife, has departed this life and is now with God. She took ill with what was thought to be a chill a week past, but her cough did not ease, and instead grew worse._

 _We thought to write to you to advise you - but the physician was sure that she would recover, and she did not wish to concern you with so little a matter as a cough; and by the time we discovered that all hope was lost, there was no time to send word to you to come to her side._

 _Before she passed away, Mother was most joyful to receive your gift of roses, and kept your letter at her bedside throughout her illness. I was with her at the end, and she asked me to assure you of her love, and her gratitude for your gentle words to her in that missive - and to tell you that her only sorrow was that she would not see Christmastide, and your return to our hearth._

 _I have, with Robert's assistance, undertaken the necessary preparations for burial, and she shall be consigned to God upon the thirtieth of this month at Felsted Church - we have delayed in order to permit you to come to us, for we have assembled at the Manor._

 _In hopes that his Majesty shall release you to return to us,_

 _Your loving daughter,_

 _Mary_

I stare at the letter, trying to accept the words written upon the paper. My wife - my Lisbet - is gone. Despite my infidelities, and my reprehensible behaviour, she was ever faithful to me, and I am glad that I learned to recognise it, and earned back the love that I had stunted through my dishonourable actions. I had been looking forward to reuniting with my family over Christmastide - and I have already purchased a fine pair of kid-leather gloves for her…gloves that now she shall not see…

Perhaps I should shed tears - but I find that I cannot. The news is in my head, yes, but it seems utterly unreal to me, and I cannot accept it as anything other than a statement of fact. Not yet.

"My Lord?" John asks, quietly, perturbed by my silence, "What is it?"

I speak the words as though they are but a message about someone of no consequence to me, "My wife has died."

"I…" Poor John - he has no idea how to respond to my words. He is more than a mere servant, yes - but he is not a friend to me. A most difficult position to be in, I think…but then he speaks, "Shall I advise my Lord of Essex?"

Slowly, I raise my head to look at him, "That would be most kind."

Clearly relieved that he can be of assistance, John withdraws.

It does not take Cromwell long to come to me, and he prevails upon me to move from the table to sit beside the fire, "I am truly sorry, Richie. I know what it is to be widowed, for I, too, lost my dear wife to a contagion."

"I must away to Felsted," I mumble, "but there is so much to be done here…I have not the time to do it all."

"Think not of it. I shall ensure it is dealt with - make yourself ready to depart. I shall advise their Majesties that you shall be absent from Court awhile."

"Thank you, Thomas. I shall ask John to assemble appropriate garments, and to pack them, and to summon some men from St Bartholomew's to accompany me. Forgive me, I do not know how long I shall be."

"Take as long as you need, Richie - there is no hurry to return if you prefer to spend time with your children at this sorrowful time.

Vaguely, I nod - still surrounded by that sense of unreality. I am still in London - and Felsted seems so far away…perhaps it is an error, and I shall arrive to find that I have been living in a strange dream. I know that I am deceiving myself, but it is more comforting to do so than to accept that I am a widower.

Seeing that I am rather lost in thought, Cromwell gets up to speak to John, and lets me sit quietly. So I must go to Felsted then, and once more dress in mourning. It is just as well that I still have the suit I wore for Henry's funeral…

And then, at last, there are tears.

* * *

Felsted is not the largest of the manors that I possess, but I am glad that my wife was here at the end, for it was her favourite, even if it is not mine. Most of the family is present now, and I am as surrounded by people as I would be if I were still at the Palace. It is an extraordinarily wide gap between eldest and youngest, for while Mary has four children of her own, my youngest, Agnes, is but two years old, and shall never know her mother. I note that, already, Mary has taken the toddling child under her wing, and I suspect that she shall become part of the Wroth family from now on - for what use am I to her when I am ever-present at Court?

The Great Chamber is a large, open space; its high ceiling decorated with intricate plaster-work, well executed linenfold wainscoting around the walls, and wide leaded windows against which a heavy autumnal rain hammers quite incessantly. As I sit in a chair near the fire, I am obliged to accept the condolences of a large group of people with whom I rarely associate, and I am grateful that so many of my grandchildren are present, for they whirl around the room and play with a liveliness that I find rather comforting in the midst of so much sorrow. I have already demanded that any attempt to still them shall be unwelcome, and so they are free to play.

I arrived in good time for the burial, thank God, surrounded by a retinue appropriate to my state as Lord Privy Seal. While I love all of my children, I am perhaps most fond of Winifrede, for she has a gentleness about her that is very like her late mother's. Thus she and I walked in the gardens a great deal in the days before the funeral, and we talked of many things - though not of my clandestine occupation as the Second to a Silver Sword, for none of my family, not even Lisbet, knows of that.

While we prayed for her soul in the small chapel at the Manor, we travelled to the Church of the Holy Cross in order to consign my Lisbet to God's care. I noticed as we attended the burial itself that the church is in a rather poor condition - and the kindly Priest took such good care of us at the graveside that I determined as we departed that I should do what I can to aid him in his endeavours to repair the building's crumbling fabric. It is, of course, my intention to lie here beside my dear wife when my time is done - and it would be most ungrateful of me to demand a fine tomb, while the church that houses it falls into ruin.

It feels most strange to be here - for I am so absorbed in my dual careers that I frequently do not think of my other homes at all. I have not the time, so they remain all-but-forgotten. Now that I am here, however, it is as though my life at Court is the strange, fevered dream, and I wonder if I shall return to London to find that none of it exists at all.

At length, the awful parade of trite comments is over, and I am free to brood over my loss. I neglected Lisbet - God knows that I did, for in all the time that I was absorbed in gaining power and wealth for myself, and then exchanged that for a commitment to Cromwell's Mission, I visited only rarely - and that she gave of herself so unselfishly, and without resentment, when I did come to her is a gift that I am only now coming to appreciate. When she was at Court, of course, it was a simple matter to spend time with her - but her choice to depart in the light of Queen Katherine's downfall separated her from me, and thus my visits to her became quite perfunctory, for I considered it my duty to beget children to continue my line - but not to value the woman from whose womb they came.

Our small chapel is empty now, and I excuse myself from the gathering to withdraw there awhile. Upon my knees, I spend some time at prayer, both for her soul, and for mine - for the guilt that I feel is strong. Lisbet was a good wife to me - but I was a poor husband to her, Mission or no Mission. She deserved better - and I intended to grant her the kindliness she deserved when I came back here at Christmastide - but now she is gone, and thus my intentions were wasted, for I left them too late. Instead of gifting those fine leather gloves to her in celebration of the Christ Child, her cold remains wear them within the coffin that is now interred in the Church.

Again, there are tears, and I allow them to fall, for I am angry with myself for my neglect, "Forgive me, my poor Lisbet - I beg you, for I am truly sorry that I did not grant you the love that a husband should. When we are reunited in God's Kingdom, I swear to you that we shall walk together through His holy Gardens as we never did when you lived; and I shall never part from you again."

There is no answer, of course; for we are not granted the privilege of reaching back into the living world once we depart from it - but my hope is strengthened by my experiences, and I find the thought rather more comforting than most might. Crossing myself, I rise back to my feet and return to the gathering. I think I shall stay another week, to reacquaint myself with my children - for the journey back to Whitehall shall be singularly unpleasant if this autumnal weather continues to turn the tracks to sloughs.

Mary is seated opposite my fireside chair, Agnes upon her lap. God, she is so tiny - and now she is motherless. Thank God Mary has reached out to her, for she has seen me so little that she knows not who I am. Her eyes are blue, like mine, and she watches me nervously - frightened of the bearded stranger dressed in black.

"This is your father, Agnes." Mary says, to her, "Do you not want to greet him?"

Her eyes widen, even more unnerved at the prospect of being brought even closer to me, and I demur, "Do not force her, Mary - she is little more than a babe, and does not deserve to be pushed upon one who is a stranger to her, even if she is of his blood."

She nods, "Is it your wish that I bring her into my household, Father? She shall be cared for as though she were one of my own."

"I should be most grateful, Mary - but I ask you not to deceive her into thinking that she is your daughter rather than your sister - I have seen in the Royal children how the vagaries of adults have forced them to act as men and women before their time. I would not wish to inflict that upon her. I shall ensure that I write to her regularly, in hopes that she might come to know me - and shall accept me when next we meet."

Mary smiles, "I shall see to it, Father. I promise. When shall you away back to Court?"

"Not for another week, I think. There is always the hope that the weather shall frost, and thus the mud that stretches from here to the London Road shall harden sufficiently to spare my garments from splashes. I have neglected you all, and that is not acceptable - regardless of my rank at Court."

"Of course. Shall we go through to the Hall? I think that there is some supper for those who wish to eat. And I think it wise that we do so."

It seems a good idea - besides, even if I have no appetite, I am sure that a cup or two of warmed wine shall help me to sleep; and thus bring this sorrowful day to a close.

* * *

The last of the papers is completed, and I sign the last with a sigh of relief, rather than a flourish. I have arranged to make a large endowment to the Church of the Holy Cross - in order to replace the leaking roof, repoint the cracking walls and any other works that might be discovered as the repairs progress. It is all that I can now do to honour my late wife, and to express my gratitude to the Priest for his care and attention.

For the rest of the time, I have reacquainted myself with my children - particularly my son Robert. After the death of Hugh, my eldest, he is the man who shall inherit my titles and properties when I am gone. He has turned out to be a better man than I - influenced by his mother in my absence. Honourable where I was not, honest where I was not, and brave where I was not. Thank God I have become more like him, than he like the man I once was.

We are walking in the gardens, which have thrived under Lisbet's care. I have arranged for the property to be placed in the care of Lord North, so that Winifrede can live here; it has become a favourite residence of hers, too. Once Christmastide is passed, I shall sign it over, and thus the gardens shall continue to be as beautiful as they are in the late autumn sun.

"When are you to return to court, Father?" he asks, for the weather has forced me to stay another few days. Not that I am unaware of matters at Court, for Cromwell is sending me reports so that I am prepared to step into my work when I am back at my desk.

"I hope to depart by the end of this week, Robert. When are you to return to your home? You have been here almost as long as I."

He smiles, "I wished to spend time with you, Father; we see you so little, after all. Your duties at Court keep you far from us."

"Forgive me - I have neglected you all."

"No, Father - no, there is nothing to forgive; I did not intend to criticise - for your work is important to the Kingdom is it not? You are - we are told - most important to their Majesties; and you are considered to be vital to the good order of the Realm. You and his Grace of Essex."

"Perhaps - but you are all of great importance, too. I shall return here for Christmastide as I planned - I should be most pleased if you could join me. It is my intention to gather all of the family together, even if your good mother is no longer present."

"We shall most assuredly attend, Father - and, should it be necessary, prevail upon all of my brothers and sisters to do the same."

He smiles, squeezes my arm gently, and then departs back to the house, leaving me to my thoughts amongst the high hedges.

Sighing to myself, I seek out a bench and sit for a while. I shall be grateful to depart from this place - for it holds nothing now but sad memories and regrets. I shall gather the family here for Christmastide, and then leave it in Winifrede's care until the time comes for me to make my last journey to rest beside Lisbet…

I am startled from my thoughts by the clatter of hooves, and for a moment, I wonder who is approaching at such haste - has something happened at Court? But it does not last long - and already the fear is building within me, as I know that it is the red Knight again, and I cannot escape him.

The horse stands nearby, but this time does not approach me. Instead, the red- armoured figure dismounts, and stands alongside his mount, watching me silently.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, rather more calmly than I have done before, "I know not what I have done to earn your enmity."

There is no answer - but still I know what it would be were the man to speak. I am to be destroyed, for I see all things. I have shadowsight.

"But what is shadowsight, Sir Knight?"

Again, I know that my blood is to be spilled, for I see all things. For I have shadowsight. And yet still I know not what it is.

Slowly, the strange figure draws that dreadful long sword, and I know that I must flee. But still I do not - for somehow I am sure that it is my flight that encourages the chase, and the cruel agony of being skewered by that hideous blade.

God help me, for I think that I may have chosen wrongly. Rather than, as I hoped, staying still, the knight lifts the blade and advances towards me. Again, I reach out, " _Lezviye k moyey ruke!_ " but my sword does not answer my call…no, that cannot be…I must be dreaming, for that was what happened when the knight came to me in my office…

I have no time to think another thought, as the long sword is thrust through my abdomen - at that exact same spot where Zaebos stabbed me… _but then, it remains to be seen whether you shall live long enough…_ and then I fall to the ground - but it is not ground - it is blood, and I am drowning…

I fight with all that I have in me to keep my head above that thick surface, screaming out for aid - but my voice makes no sound.

"Father!" the voice is that of Mary, "Father - what is happening to you?"

I want to scream to her, tell her to flee - for she shall die if she remains here…but again my voice will not work.

Suddenly, I am grasped by my shoulders, and I panic as that grip seems certain to push me down, not pull me free; but now my arms shall not obey me, and I am absolutely frozen.

"Father!" Mary calls me again, "Father! You are dreaming, wake up!"

Oh, dear God, please let that be true - please let me be dreaming, please…

And then my eyes seem to spring open - and I find that I am abed. Gradually, my breathing eases, and I find that I am again somewhat overheated, and my head is fit for cracking. As I sit up, I fight not to moan aloud, for I have no wish to worry my daughter; but it seems that even sleep is now no refuge from that ghastly monster.

For I see all things. I have shadowsight.

But what, in God's name, is shadowsight?


	17. From the Mouth of a Child

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Starfire201, I really appreciate your comments, and I hope I can keep up the momentum! It's not too much longer until we discover what shadowsight actually is: Cecil is about to pick up another clue, while we hear a little more about the red knight, courtesy of an unexpected source...

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

 _From the Mouth of a Child_

Cromwell's expression is one of deep concern, and he says nothing for a considerable time; apparently lost in thought.

"And you were unmolested at any other time, Richie?" he says, eventually.

I nod. I have been back at Court now for five days, after we gave up waiting for the tracks from Felsted to dry out, and I made my mud-spattered way back to Whitehall, "This mysterious knight came to me in a dream as I slept - rather than in some sort of waking vision. I had hoped that sleep would be a refuge from such visitations - but it seems not."

"Despite all, however, you are unharmed but for the aching head and the raised temperature. It is most strange."

"They feel utterly vivid as they occur - and, while I experience them, it is as though they are real. But then I faint - and find that I have not been injured at all. That sense of hate that is directed at me is truly deadly, however. Whether the red Knight is a true being, or a manifestation of something else, I cannot say - but that deep desire to kill me in the most dreadful manner possible is ever-present; and it is always because I know all things, for I have shadowsight. But I do _not_ know all things - in particular the identity of this mysterious shadowsight."

"Has William been able to find anything?" He recalls that I sent a note to Cecil to ask him to search the Library.

"Not as yet - or, at least, he has not reported so." I admit, "Even with as much descriptive evidence as I was able to offer, it shall be hard to find any data that might reveal at least a clue as to what is happening to me."

"In which case, I suggest you travel to Grant's Place as soon as you may. Christmastide approaches, and it is intended that the Court shall remove to Placentia to celebrate - so the opportunity shall be snatched away from you if you do not act quickly. The intention to move has not yet been announced, but Somerset has advised me privately so that we may prepare the offices - for the notice is rather short again."

"Then I shall do so - though I am not disappointed to be moving to Placentia, for it shall shorten my journey to Felsted a little, at least - now that I do not have the river in the way."

"Felsted?" Cromwell looks quite startled, "Ah - yes, you intend to spend the season with your family, do you not?"

"More so, now that I am widowed, Thomas. I promised my children that I would do so - and I intend to keep that promise, for I have broken so many over the years." For a moment, I remember the promises that I made to my wife - and broke - and suddenly I find myself close to tears again, "I was a poor husband to her, Thomas. We were affectionate when first we wed - but then my ambition and greed overtook that affection, and she became nothing more than an adjunct to my intention to progress at Court. I forsook my vows to her, and thus there are children in the world who call me father, but she is not their mother. And yet, though all of that, she still gave me her affection, nay - even love - and I treated it as a child treats a toy: an object to be picked up and set aside at a whim."

Cromwell's hand is upon my shoulder again as I weep, "At the last, however, she knew otherwise, Richie. Did not your daughter's letter state so?"

"But even that was an afterthought!" I cry, miserably, "I had not thought to write such words - it was only as I was about to seal it that the realisation struck me, and I set them down. I did not know why it came to me that I should do so, but now I give thanks to God that I did, for they were the last words from me that she ever received. She deserved better! I should have been a kinder husband to her, and I was not!"

I cannot fathom why I am so distressed - for I have seen men in my position who have viewed their loss with acceptance, even indifference, before seeking a new wife as soon as decorum permitted. Did they, too, abandon composure when behind closed doors? The man I once was might well have considered my loss to be nothing more than the inconvenience of being obliged to leave Court to attend the funeral, not to mention the cost of mourning garments and jewels to be made available for those who were invited to attend - for he was certainly indifferent to his wife as anything more than a means to shore up his line and his standing at Court with a large brood of children - but the man that I am now rediscovered the affection that we had when we made our vows to one another, and is burdened with guilt for his actions, and thus I mourn.

I have recovered myself by the time we depart to attend the Council meeting, fortunately, though I am grateful for expressions of condolence from their Majesties the King and Queen Regent, as well as Somerset and Paget. Even Northumberland offers a gruff word or two - albeit because he would be alone in not doing so.

"Forgive us, Gentlemen," Queen Jane begins, "I must commence our meeting with an apology, for we have delayed quite long enough. It is our decision that we shall spend Christmastide at Placentia, our late Lord's favourite palace for this season. The Court shall receive the announcement as soon as this meeting is concluded."

There are no objections - for, despite the lateness of the season, the middens are becoming rather ripe again. We have sufficient time to do so - if we do not delay too long in the packing - for Advent is still two weeks away. Many of those who are present at Whitehall shall take the opportunity to depart to their estates, as there shall not be sufficient space at Greenwich to accommodate them all, though Cromwell and I shall travel there for form's sake - while I depart to Essex, and Cromwell to Austin Friars - though he shall spend less time there than he would normally do, for it is his turn to guard the Palace.

My desk is piled high with papers when I return, for the clerks are busy sorting those which may be archived, and those which must travel with us. As there are certain documents for which they cannot make that decision, they are set aside for my consideration - Wriothesley is quite burdened enough as it is - and so I work my way through them, papers to stay piled to the left, papers to go piled to the right. It is an absorbing task that lifts my mind out of its rather grief-stricken brooding, and I am grateful for it. To my relief, for the coffers to travel with us are becoming rather full, most of the papers can remain, so I hand them back to Peter, who has grown from the youngest of our Clerks to one of our most trusted men, to oversee the archiving.

With nothing to detain me further, I am free to return to my quarters should I wish to, but instead I get up and stand by the windows to look out. It is astonishing how infrequently I do so - for the view across the City is quite magnificent; my office being set upon the third floor of the great east range, with an entirely uninterrupted view out over the Thames. The river is busy today - barges, wherries and little row-boats going back and forth - though the larger vessels do not come up this far - held further east by the great barrier of London Bridge. Similarly, the small boats rarely go beyond there - for the river is most dangerous at that point, forced into vicious rushes by the enormous piers. Only a fool attempts to pass beneath it when the tide is racing - a feat that the river-men call 'shooting the bridge' - and certainly if the Royal family travels to Placentia by river; if it is not possible to match the tides, they do so only as far as St Magnus the Martyr, before disembarking, crossing to the downstream side, and embarking on another barge to continue from the Pool of London.

I suppose it comforts me to think of such trivialities, for the last few weeks have been quite miserable. I find that I am now almost permanently on tenterhooks that I shall endure another visitation from that red Knight, and equally wondering why he pursues me when I most patently cannot see everything, and have no idea what shadowsight is. And still no word from Cecil. Not being a man given to unnecessary communication, I know that his silence upon the matter is because he has found nothing, and sees little reason to send me a letter to declare such a fact.

That even sleep is no longer a refuge to me serves only to make matters worse. God, I have not felt such anguish since I found myself unable to secure Red Fire - for so much hinged upon it, and I was helpless, for I could not seek it out myself, and no one who was looking for it could find it. While no one shall be harmed but me if we cannot solve this mystery, nonetheless my fear of a visitation occurring while I am in a public place is growing by the day. If I were to have such a fit in the presence of others, then I would be considered to be mad, or possessed - and thus my time at Court would come to an end. Who would want to be in the presence of a madman, after all?

Enough - I cannot continue to fret like this. If there is nothing in the Library, then that is fair enough; but Cecil is not seeing what I am seeing - he is working with descriptions that I have given him. Perhaps I might see something that he has missed - better to do that than remain where I am and feel increasingly desperate. I shall either lose my temper or suffer a hideously embarrassing storm of tears at this rate.

There is time to get to Grant's Place tonight before dark, so I scribble a hasty note to Cromwell that I have gone to the Library. He shall know what it means where others do not, and return to my quarters to change.

* * *

Cecil is most surprised to see me, "What prompted you to come here, Richard? I was just about to dispatch a letter to you."

Then I am equally surprised, "I am not sure. Frustration, I think. It seemed quite impulsive - I had decided that I could no longer remain at the Palace without knowing what is happening to me; and, as it is easier to work from knowledge than a description of said knowledge, I decided to come here to assist you in your searching. Why - have you found something?"

"I am unsure - that was why I intended to summon you. It seems most strange, for you have come to do the very thing that I was intending to ask you to undertake."

And so it has happened again - an impulsive thought that has proved to be most fortuitous in the outcome of events. At least I am experiencing good luck in some parts of my life, then. I suppose it must counter the bad, "Shall we go through?"

"I suggest we sup first, Richard - Miss Parsons is in the process of overseeing the preparation of supper, and it is nearly ready."

Frustrated as I am by this discovery, for I wish to begin work at once, I am also hungry, "Unless we are joined by any other, I think we can combine both endeavours, can we not?"

"Indeed - though what I have learned is so little that you may find it even more of a frustration than knowing nothing at all."

While we wait for supper, I spend a little time with Goodwife Dawson, though it is a most sad experience, as she is now so ill that she no longer seems to know me. She is bedridden, and smiles upon me as though I were a son of hers that she has not seen in many years. Oh God - another familiar face soon to depart; how long until we are obliged to stand at her graveside? Once, life seemed full of gifts that it gave so freely - but now it seems to do nothing but take them away.

Cecil is most understanding of my sorrowful mood as I join him over a finely turned haunch of gravy-drenched mutton, with good bread and a large flagon of claret. For a while, we eat in silence - but eventually I find my curiosity overcomes my sadness, and I turn to the matter in hand, "What have you found?"

"Only the vaguest of references, I fear, Richard. While I have found mention of this shadowsight, it does not identify anything specific - but I do know that it is an object, not a manifestation of some form of ability or supernatural gift. Presumably, ownership of this object grants this supposed skill to see all things; though how it is to be obtained, or its powers acquired, I have not been able to fathom."

"So it is something that I must find." I muse, toying with my empty cup, "Presumably, this red Knight wishes to prevent me from doing so - but since I do not know what it is that I am seeking, it seems a truly pointless endeavour, for he seems only to be able to come at me in a spiritual form, and thus does me no permanent harm."

"Perhaps he intends to intimidate you in order to prevent you from doing so."

"If that is the case, then I fear for his intelligence even more strongly - for if he wishes to prevent me searching for something that I did not even know of until he first began to do so, then all he has done is drive me to attempt to find it."

"Then perhaps he wishes for you to find it, so that he can wrest it from you?"

"I cannot see how - for he has no physical form, so how can he do so?"

Cecil falls silent, for it is a most bemusing mystery. If this Knight is so keen to destroy me for possessing something that I do not have, why approach me at all? If I do not have it, then I am no danger to him - and yet still he comes to me.

"Unless I have it - and know not what it is." I add; "but since I do not know what it is, I cannot think of any way to wield it, or remove it from my person."

"I shall assemble the papers that I have found to date, Richard - and send them to the Palace for your perusal at your leisure. As you have come in person, I think your intention is to consider any evidence I have found in the additional light of your own memories of your experiences, rather than your descriptions of them."

"That would be most helpful. We are to remove to Placentia in the next week or so; but I shall be there no more than a few days before I depart to Felsted for Christmastide - thus I shall peruse them upon my return."

Our decision made, we turn our conversation to other matters, for Cecil has been working at Whitehall regularly while we have been elsewhere, and thus needs little in the way of advice on how things stand at Court. Instead, I tell him of Robert Dudley, who has now arrived at the House, and opted to refer to himself as 'Robert of Warwick' thanks to his family's association with the Town. I am, by virtue of my role as the supervisor of the Spies in England, granted the privilege of knowing such things when all others do not. Other than myself, only Cromwell - and now also Cecil - shall be aware of his educational progress in Milan. Northumberland shall, we hope, assume that his boy is too busy studying and carousing to maintain any contact with his father.

"Do you think he shall win swords, then?" Cecil asks, as we move on to a rather good hippocras that has far less cinnamon in it than it used to. I think I prefer this one.

"I should be most surprised if he does not," I admit, "he is sharp, fast and intelligent - his father's determination that he should see Royal service has granted him facility in at least two languages, so he is already halfway taught in such things. The only things that shall stand in his way shall be other students who are more talented than he - or death in training."

"Death?" Cecil's eyebrows raise.

"Alas, yes. I do not think that he shall be expelled, either for failure or insubordination - but the training is hard, and it is not unknown for students to be injured so grievously that they do not survive. The dearest friend that Thomas knew while he was in Milan was such a victim. In his rashness, and determination to win in competition against another student that he despised, he climbed the wall of a high tower, and lost his footing."

"I assumed that the true dangers of such a calling were faced once one graduated - not while one still studied."

"It is a hard existence - better to know that from the beginning than to find out once one is in service, I think. While I have faced many dangers - and have been in fear of my life more than once - Seconds are not normally placed in such peril. It was thanks to the extreme threat of Lamashtu that I was called to a higher purpose than mere book-work. What has happened since is likely to be the normal way of things for men such as we."

"Except for this shadowsight business." Cecil reminds me, dryly, "It seems that you did more than take on a mission. You have taken on a destiny."

"I think that is more Thomas's fate than mine, William." I smile at him, "Men such as I are destined to stand to the rear and aid those to whom she truly calls. While I found the Fires, it was not my place to wield them. Thus I think that, should there truly be a thing as destiny, it belongs to him, not to me. And I am grateful for it."

"Perhaps." William agrees, and smiles, "I shall gather the papers together for your perusal as soon as time allows, Richard. They shall be ready for you upon your return from Felsted."

* * *

I have dispatched the gifts and belongings that I shall require while I am away, and now all that remains is to complete a few outstanding pieces of work before I depart in their wake. The papers that Cecil collated are locked in a coffer, which has in turn been locked in a cupboard for perusal upon my return. If the red Knight visits me while I am away, then I shall endure it, and deal with the fever and headache as it arises. There is little more, after all, that I can do.

As we always do, I spend the evening supping with Cromwell, for we are never at court together upon the day of celebration itself. Either I am at one of my Manors while he is at Court, or I keep guard while he is at Austin Friars. While he has many other properties, he regards that great house as his home, and always spends Christmastide under its roof if he is not in one of the Palaces.

While it has been years since Wyatt supped with us, we feel his loss quite keenly this year, and Cromwell raises a glass of claret to him, "In memory of an absent friend."

Our supper this year is - as always - most fine, though it is foolish to have an entire turkey-cock upon the table for but two men, so instead we have a saddle of venison roasted with herbs and onions. There is good bread, frumenty thick with nuts and spices, and plenty of excellent claret, while a minced pye awaits our attentions should we not be too over-indulged.

"It has been a momentous year, Richie," he sighs, not entirely sadly, as we eat, "We have lost so many - and stand upon the verge of a new age. I think that, should all go well with his education, King Edward shall lead this Realm to great things."

"Amen to that, Thomas." I agree, "Nothing to threaten us, the factions largely quelled for the moment, and a great number of treaties to keep us protected from pointless wars. Perhaps we shall no longer need to endure such a calamity - it may be that instead we shall settle our differences through diplomacy."

"I wish that were so, Richie; truly I do - but still there is always that risk of bellicosity, for Kings are still taught that war is a noble art for Princes - when it is most certainly not. If we can make even a few tottering baby steps towards universal peace, then perhaps there is hope for us after all. None prosper in war but the carrion eaters - be they animals or men." He pauses, "This is a most unsuitable subject for such a joyous time of year. Tell me what you intend to do while at Felsted."

"Attend mass, surround myself with family and eat until I am fit to burst, I think."

"And then sleep?" Cromwell smiles.

"Extensively."

* * *

I am rarely obliged to travel with an entourage of my own men, for I spend so much time at Court, and I am more than capable of defending myself without aid - but I am travelling not as the Second to the Raven, but as the Lord Privy Seal and First Baron of Leighs. Therefore, I must at least look the part. While the colours of my Arms might be gules and or, it would be most inappropriate to dress my stewards so, and instead they wear grey, trimmed with black; the Arms emblazoned upon the left breast of their doublets.

I have given thought to investing in a carriage - again for form's sake rather than anything else - but rejected the idea after being obliged to ride in one on a few occasions. Until someone finds a way to prevent every single bump in a road from being transmitted to one's posterior while seated in one, it shall remain a thoroughly unpleasant means of travel. Besides, what use are wheels on unpaved roads that are churned to sloughs by ox carts? Thus, I am riding Urban, and we make good time on the new road from London to Chelmsford, stopping at a good inn for both rest and victuals halfway.

By the time I reach the great House at Felsted, I am tired, spattered with mud, and I reek of horses. Mary is already present, along with her husband and family, and all who are able to attend are on their way. Not all of my children shall be able to visit, for they have engagements elsewhere, but Winifrede shall be here in two days, while Robert is intent upon joining us for St Stephen's Day. Etheldreda is expected this evening, along with her husband Robert and her two boys, and - of course - little Agnes is already in residence, being cared for by her nurse and elder sister.

Mary is, of course, solicitous of my needs, "Come in, Father - my goodness, you are so cold, your hands are frozen! Come, Wilfred is heating water for the tub, so you shall be able to bathe in less than an hour. There is warm cider awaiting you. Are you well?"

I hold up my hand to hush her, "I am most well, my dear Mary - and glad to be with you again. You are most kind to make such extensive preparations for my arrival. Are my chambers prepared?"

"Yes, Father - your coffers arrived yesterday, and have been unpacked. William has sorted some clean garments for you to wear once you have bathed."

I pause then, for I am struck by a most strange thought, "Mary, are you well also?" My expression is rather pointed.

She looks quite startled, "Why yes, Father - more than well, in fact. I am with child again, how did you know?"

I wish I could answer her - but I cannot, so instead I make some vague excuse or other about a fortunate guess, before the steward, Wilfred, comes through to advise that my bath is ready, and I follow him through to my chambers, most keen to remove the unpleasant equine fragrance that has permeated my clothes and hair.

Supper is almost ready by the time I emerge, feeling altogether better. In my absence, Etheldreda has arrived, with her husband and two children, while those of Mary and Winifrede are already reestablishing their acquaintances from our previous gathering. Again, they are excited, and rather noisy, but I ask their mothers not to hush them too much. I live in a world that is punctuated by the poison of adults - and the sound of childrens' voices is pleasant - though I have no doubt that I shall tire of it before long. Agnes is watching me again, her eyes still wide - for while she is my child, I have not been a father to her, so she does not truly know who I am. Perhaps now I shall have the opportunity to make amends.

Once we have eaten, and the children are abed, Winifrede joins me at the fireside in the small parlour, while her siblings are playing cards in the hall, "I have set the gifts aside in a closet in the hall, Father. They can be shared out once we have dined upon Christmastide." She pauses, but then continues, "Mary asked me to give you this. Mother dictated it to her when she discovered that her sickness was likely to be mortal. As she knows what was said, she did not feel it right that she should be with you when you read it." In her hand, she has a small note. I take it from her, and she prepares to rise.

"Thank you, Winifrede - and thank Mary for me; for, no matter what this note says, I am grateful to have it. Even if the words within are painful to read."

As she departs, I unfurl the note, and force myself to focus upon the words; and find that, rather than take me to task for my indifference towards her in the middle years of our marriage, instead she speaks to me of that which we shared at the outset, and regained after I ceased to seek only my own advancement. She knows, it seems, that I was involved in a great purpose, and thus did not begrudge me the absences from her side, or the neglect that I obliged her to endure. Her final words to me are an expression of gratitude for my last letter to her - and her regret that she is not likely to see Christmastide, when I shall return to her. And then a simple statement,

 _I hold you in my heart, my husband, and shall do so in this life as long as I breathe, and in the next - until we are reunited in God, and are together for eternity._

For a while I hold that paper, my hand shaking. Even though I know that she never ceased to love me, regardless of my neglect of her, those words have the power to reawaken my grief, and I find that I cannot hold back the tears. God, I am sorry, so sorry that I left it as late as I did - but I am thankful that I remembered to tell her that her love for me was returned - and to think I nearly did not include that statement at all…

The door opens, and I look up, sharply, to find that little Agnes is standing in the dubious, flicker of firelight. She has little command of speech yet, though she can ask simple questions, and she does so, "Are you my poppa?"

Oh, Christ - how long has it been since I heard that name? All of my children called me that - and now she does, too. While I might have neglected my marriage, I delighted in being referred to by such a foolish pet-name by my children - and I thought I should never hear it again.

"Yes, Agnes. I am your poppa."

"Has mamma gone? She is not here any more. Martha says she is with the angels now." Her voice is quite matter of fact - for she would have seen only a little more of Lisbet than I did. I suspect that she would be far more distraught at the loss of Martha, her nurse.

"Martha is right. She is with the angels - and she is looking down at us and smiling, I think." This assurance seems to please her, and she approaches me, as I hold out my hand to her. To my relief, she takes my hand, and does not demur to sit upon my lap, "I work far away from here, Agnes. But I always think of you all."

"Winnie says so." Agnes agrees, referring to Winifrede, "She wants me to live with her - but I am to live with Mary. Can I live with Winnie?"

Ah. Family politics - perhaps a more dangerous territory even than that of the Privy Council. I must tread carefully, I think.

"We shall have to ask them, Agnes. They both love you, you see, and they want you to be happy."

She nods, but makes no further comment, instead nestling into my side, as my simarre is furred, and pleasantly warm in the late evening chill. Does she know? That I find comfort in her immediate trust in me as her parent, despite her hardly knowing me? I can feel her growing heavier as she dozes off to sleep, so I wrap an arm about her to keep her from falling.

Again, the door opens, and Winifrede returns "Ah, there she is." Her voice is low, to avoid waking the child, "Mary and I have told her of you frequently, and she seems to recognise that you are important to her."

"I am grateful that she is here." I admit, "For your mother's letter caused my grief to sting me anew. It was comforting to talk to her."

"It is time for her to seek her bed, I think. We shall be gathering for mass in the chapel in an hour."

"She called me 'poppa'." A rather banal statement, perhaps, but I am keen to know if she was prompted to do so.

"She did? That is good to know, for we have told her that we called you that when we were small. She liked it, and I think it made her view you with less shyness."

"I am glad of it. Thank you."

She smiles, then lifts Agnes from my lap to carry her away to her bed.

* * *

Our attendance at Mass this morning was at the Church of the Holy Cross, as I wished to spend it in the company of my wife - albeit her mortal remains. Mary remained at the manor with the children, attending Mass in the chapel there, for they are very excited, and I did not think it fair to expect them to remain seated and quiet throughout a long sermon.

Already the funds that I have made available are being put to use, I note, for there is wooden scaffolding on the south side of the building, and clear signs of work upon the roof. Within, we are seated within a large box pew that has been erected with funds granted by Robert for our use, while the rest of the congregation has now been granted benches upon which to sit - for it is only in the last few years that seats have been provided - worshippers being expected to stand. Indeed, until I saw the condition of the church, they were still obliged to do so here.

The priest's sermon is not long, but it is heartfelt, concentrating upon the Holy Family, and, by extension, the importance of family. It is not specifically aimed at me, of course; but I recognise that I have neglected mine. I wish that I could be with them more than I am, but now that I am a Second, the need for me to remain at the Palace is greater than once it was. Even now, I can see the parishioners looking across at us, for I am an unfamiliar face, despite my ownership of much of the lands here and about. But then, there are other parishes and manors where even my name is barely known, for I have accumulated the properties, but not attended them.

As the walk back to the Manor is not long, we have not bothered to bring horses; and we thus make our way across frost-thick fields in mist that is rising now that the sun is emerging above the trees of the deer park. I am arm in arm with Winifrede and Etheldreda, while my sons in law talk together behind us. Further back are the various retainers and stewards of the house, who bring up the rear. When we have returned to the house, we shall dine - those who are engaged in the monumental activity of producing the repast having attended mass in the manor's chapel.

If I cannot be with my wife, then I am most happy to be with those of my children who are able to be here today. Cromwell is not blessed with so many children as I - but he does not want for family, for he has a brood of nephews and nieces who are celebrating with him, and thus I feel no shame in revelling in the presence of so many. For a while, there is nothing over my head, no pressures of work, no talk of destiny or any such matters of concern. Today, I am the patriarch of a Gentry family, and we are together to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child.

It is, I admit, a rather conceited display of my wealth - but the centrepiece of our dinner today is a monstrous construction of a snipe, inside a woodcock, inside a quail, inside a pigeon, inside a pheasant, inside a duck, inside a goose - all filled out to shape with forcemeat and finally stuffed into a great turkey-cock. I have never had the fortune to be presented with such a ridiculously expensive dish - having instead seen it served only to King Henry. God, I hope it is not revolting, or I shall be made to look an utter fool for wasting money upon something that is fine only to look at and talk about - but I have not presided over a family dinner in longer than I can remember, and I wish to enjoy it, for I do not know when the chance shall arise again. I must just remember to not look at the empty chair beside me at the high table, where once Lisbet would have been seated. I cannot bear to have it filled by any other so soon after her passing.

To my great relief, the stuffed sequence of birds is both remarkable, and good to eat. The children are delighted at the idea of a bird inside a bird, which goes some way to compensating for the requirement upon them to act not as children, but as adults in miniature. I vaguely remember many strokes with a switch for my own inability to behave in such a fashion, and how I loathed and feared it. Thus Lisbet - with my wholehearted agreement - forbade such punishment upon my own children and allowed them time to be the children that they were for as long as we could circumvent the requirements of convention, and it seems that they have done the same. Rambunctious though my grandchildren appear to be at times, they still have excellent manners, and know how to behave at the dinner table.

For some reason, as we rise and go through to the withdrawing chamber while the hall is cleared, for Winifrede has engaged a small consort of musicians to entertain us this afternoon, Agnes seems quite determined to remain close to me, and will not leave me be. Why she is doing it, I cannot fathom - but I know that I wish for her to do so, for she is my youngest child, and I am keen to know her.

"Come now, Agnes, let your father be." Mary holds out her hand, her expression kindly, for she appreciates that she is talking to a small child who does not understand instructions as the older ones do.

"Stay with Poppa." She says, very firmly, shaking her head, and grasping at my hand.

"I should like it if she stayed." I admit, a little wistfully. I saw so little of my children as they grew, and seeing Agnes now causes me great regret - even though my actions saved them all from a grotesque slavery under the cruel reign of demons. I shall not be here for very long, and soon shall be removed from her life again - and I find that I want to hold on to each and every moment that I can.

Mary does not argue, but instead smiles and withdraws as I settle back in my chair with a rather wide yawn.

"Are you sad, Poppa?" Agnes asks me as she clambers into my lap - rather a challenge in her long skirts and bodice.

"A little. I wish that your Mamma was here. I know that she is happy with the angels, but still I wish that she was here."

"But you see all things, Poppa," She says, suddenly, and quite impulsively.

I smile at her, indulgently, "I wish it were so, my poppet, truly I do - but I can only see with the eyes that God gave me."

"But _he_ says that you can."

"Who does, Agnes?" Suddenly, I am most nervous, is she saying this - or am I dreaming it?

"The man in red." She turns and points to the other end of the chamber, "Over there."

No - oh God, not now; not here…there is that man in the armour again, staring at me with that same dread hatred. And yet, no one seems to see him other than Agnes and me. How can they not notice him? Mary is telling a story to the gathered children, while Winifrede is supervising the delivery of the gifts from the closet where they were stored. Their husbands are still in conversation, as though discussing the same dull matter that occupied them on the way back from Church - but how is it that they cannot see him, while Agnes and I can?

"Agnes - go to your sister. Sit with the other children." I do not want her to be hurt, for that ghastly knight shall come at me with that sword again, and she shall be in the way if he strikes at me.

"No Poppa." She turns to me, her eyes intent, "He wants to hurt you. Because you have shadowsight."

"I don't know what that is, Agnes. How is it that you know of this?"

" _He_ told me." She insists, "Shadowsight is making you see him, and he hates that. He doesn't want to be seen, so he wants to hurt you to stop you seeing him."

How can she know this? She is but a child of two years - barely more, and yet she speaks as though she is framing the words of a woman grown...and then I am struck by a strong suspicion.

"Cassandra?"

She looks at me, and I know that I am right. If Wolsey cannot speak to her any longer, she can still enter the open mind of a child - but I do not want her to, for she is using my daughter.

"Forgive me, Second." Her words exit Agnes's mouth more overtly now, "I do not know what shadowsight is, any more than you do. I cannot tell you more - but I know that this being does not exist in the mortal plane - but it shall not be so forever. A great battle shall open the way for a man upon a horse. You must find shadowsight, and you must be ready."

"Ready for what?"

I can hear footsteps now - God help me, he is coming…he is coming, "Cassandra - ready for _what?_ "

But before she can answer, that terrible sword drives through me - but not only through me, through my poor little girl.

My scream is dreadful - not so much from the pain, but the appalling realisation that my child has been skewered with me. Christ no, no - have mercy, she is flopping in my arms, her eyes rolling up…oh God, my child…my baby girl…

And then nothing.

* * *

When I next open my eyes, I find that I am abed, and I feel utter exhaustion. Winifrede is seated in a chair nearby, and looks most relieved to find that I am awake, "Thanks be to God - we did not know what to do; you cried out and then fainted."

I look up at the ceiling of my bedchamber, and sigh, "How long?"

She is confused for a moment, but then understands, "Two days - we thought to summon a physician, but there was no one to summon, for Doctor Williams is away with family."

"It would have made no difference, Winifrede…" I am about to attempt to sit up when I feel a slight pressure upon the bed beside me.

"She would not leave you, Father." Winifrede says, quietly, looking at the sleeping form of Agnes. She lost her mother, and was afraid that, if she did not stay, then she would lose you, too."

I look down at her in dismay. I thought her to be largely unaffected by the loss of her mother; but no, she is indeed grieving - and was, for a moment, fearful that she would be left without me as well as Lisbet - even though she barely knows me. As she stirs, I rest my hand on her head, "Agnes."

She looks up at me, and smiles as I hold out my arm and allow her to clamber up to settle beside me, "Winifrede tells me you stayed with me while I was asleep. Thank you. I am sorry I slept for so long."

Again, she looks at me quite intently, but says nothing, instead huddling against me as though she intends to protect me from all comers. Thoroughly unnerved, I turn back to Winifrede, "Forgive me for asking again - but what happened?"

We thought that you had fallen asleep in your chair, and that Agnes was resting upon you as you did so. But then suddenly you screamed aloud, and it was only thanks to my husband that she did not fall with you, for you fell out of the chair, and landed upon the floor with a dreadful thud. He was able to lift her from you as you fell."

I wonder what to tell her, for I can see that she is full of questions; but she knows nothing of my work as the Second to the Raven - nothing at all. I cannot tell her the truth; and yet, what else shall suffice to explain my unconsciousness?

"I wish I could explain what happened, Winifrede - I truly do; but I do not understand it myself, so I cannot."

"Then I shall not press you, Father." She says, though it is clear that she is still most concerned, "Would you like some broth?"

"Only if there is nothing else." I admit, for I loathe broth. I am relieved at her light laugh.

"Come, Agnes; let your Poppa rest awhile. He is very tired."

This time, she does not protest, and allows Winifrede to lift her away from me. I wish that I was not as tired as I am - for I wish very much to write to Cromwell to advise him of what little I can remember from Cassandra's advice. I am sure I recall someone telling me that a conflict would open the way for a man on a horse - but where, and in what context, now escapes me. Furthermore, the discovery that the reason why the red Knight wishes to harm me is to ensure that I can no longer see him is most mysterious. If he had not come to me, then I would not have known of his hatred, and I would not be able to see him, so why has he come?

I recall the occasions upon which Lamashtu attempted to harm us - and in doing so gave us the very means by which we could frustrate her; in her attempt to destroy Cromwell by sending that malevolence against him, she ensured that he was protected by the Royal Rosary - which he wears over his heart to this day - and by a life debt that he owed to Queen Jane. In the events that followed, my anguished belief that I was a failure caused me to truly accept my place as a Second, and opened the way for Wolsey to speak to me - thereby creating a conduit through which he could emerge to see her off when she came to destroy Edward at the moment of his birth. Not only that, but she also ensured that, through the life debt, Jane was also saved - and so was able to hand Red Fire to me. In her acts to destroy us, she instead laid the foundations of her own destruction. It seems almost as though this strange red Knight is making the exact same mistake.

Much to my dismay, there is nothing for me but broth, and I choke it down with great disgust. It is, however, better than nothing, as I am hungry; and, once I have finished, I sink back onto the pillows to go back to sleep.

By the following morning, I am recovered, and I insist upon getting up, for I cannot abide to remain in bed any longer; but my mind is no longer at ease, for I must return to London as soon as I may. So much is hanging upon that one word 'shadowsight', and until I know what it is, I am absolutely helpless in the face of whatever keeps assaulting me. But poor little Agnes - she shall be distraught if I leave before I said that I would…her mother has gone, and then her father…

The gardens are frosty, and most delightful to look upon from the windows of the hall. Again, my youngest child is at my side, and I feel even more guilty that she is being tossed in a storm of which she knows so little. I turn as the door opens, and Mary joins us, "Do you have to return to London, Father?"

"I fear that I must - for whatever happened to leave me unconscious for two entire days is most serious. I must investigate it - and I can only do it there."

"What _did_ happen to you?"

"As I told your sister, I do not know - and that is why I must investigate. If I understood what had happened to me, then I would explain it to you - but as I do not, I cannot."

She nods, then turns to me, "Agnes wants to live with Winifrede. While she is always welcome to live with us, I am content to accede to her wishes." She looks down at the little girl, who is watching us quite hopefully.

"If that is her wish, then I think it should be respected, Mary. It may be that she shall change her mind as she grows - and perhaps she can travel between your families as she wishes. I shall, however, make sure that I send her letters, for I have no wish to leave her bereft. Even if I cannot be here I wish to be present in her life."

"Then that is what we shall do." Mary smiles at Agnes, who looks up at me as though I am a King. Upon an impulse, I settle down upon my knees beside her, and she hugs herself into my simarre. God, she is so tiny - so very, very young. She deserves better than this - a father who is absent, and a mother who is dead.

"Look after her, Mary - you and Winifrede. I have no choice but to go - but I am loath to leave her now that I have come to know her."

"We shall ensure that any letters you send are read to her, Father." Mary promises, "And if she has any messages she wishes to send, they shall be sent to you."

For the first time in my life, I do not want to return to London - Mission or no Mission; but this mysterious knight is becoming more and more persistent, and I must find out what he is, and what he wants.

And so, I shall go.


	18. Foresight

Chapter Eighteen

 _Foresight_

My journey back to Placentia is a most disheartening affair. Agnes was quite distraught at my departure, and would not let go of me for some considerable time. Rather than forcibly disengage from her, I spent a good ten minutes upon my knees, allowing her to cling to me, while Winifrede talked to her, and eventually she consented to release me. Even as I rode away, surrounded by my grey-clad retainers, I was already composing my first letter to her, amidst a dreadful sense of fatherly guilt.

The weather is also poor, for what little snow we have had has melted into ghastly slush, and a vile drizzle is now in the air, soaking into my hat and cloak, and driving the chill down to my bones. Worse, the only inn that we could find to patronise was of a most poor aspect, and the only victuals they could offer was a mean stew of dry, long-stored turnips and some scrag end of mutton. While it was at least hot, it was horribly oily, and I am sure that it is the reason for the rather disconcerting grumblings of my stomach as we crest the hill that overlooks the great park of Greenwich, and see the palace stretched out below.

My primary hope is that no one has heard about my worrying collapse while I was at Felsted; rumours of ill health are never helpful when one is a major figure at Court, particularly if they speak of an illness of the mind. In that respect, I am grateful that it happened while I was away; but I do know that it shall concern Cromwell a great deal, as is always the case if I am attacked - whether it by mystical forces or other courtiers.

I am most relieved to dismount and depart to my quarters as soon as we have returned, for the I am quite convinced that the dinner I was served on the road has made me unwell, and if that is so, I have no wish to make a fool of myself in public. By the time I reach my apartments, my conviction has become certainty, and I have no wish to see anyone at all - and indeed, would welcome sleep, or death, whichever would end my sufferings more quickly and effectively. God help me, I shall go back to that damned inn and have it razed to the bloody ground…

After two abominable days, I am finally willing to admit company, though I am dreadfully weak and feel utterly washed out. While I have been vilely ill, it has - at least - been thanks to tainted food rather than a visitation from that red Knight. Indeed, so miserable have I been, slumped over a basin, that thoughts of him have not entered my head at any time.

I am in the process of composing the first promised letter to Agnes when Cromwell arrives, telling her of my unfortunate indisposition, and telling her that, while I am glad she did not have to watch me, I would have welcomed her comforting presence had she been with me. She shall like that, I am sure.

"Are you feeling better, Richie?" he asks as I invite him to sit alongside the fire.

"Not entirely - but sufficiently so to admit company again, Thomas." I admit, "I have not eaten today, and I fear that, if I do, I shall regret it. John has been plying me with warm white wine and ginger root, which has proved to be rather more pleasant than I expected."

It is then that I notice that he has the coffer, "Did you break into my office closet, Thomas?"

He has the grace to look a little sheepish, "I needed the practice."

"As long as you locked it again afterwards." I advise, grudgingly; then I snort with amusement as he looks most offended. "Forgive me if I leave them unread for another day - I am truly exhausted and do not think that I could concentrate upon them. Besides, I have more to tell you, which I think shall also be easier when I am more awake."

He nods, "Then I shall leave you in peace, Richie. Try to get as much sleep as you can - for his Majesty is most keen to commence work again as soon as we may, and he is also keen to know what effect our economies are having, though her Majesty is aware that the results shall not be extensive so early on."

Once he has departed, I complete my letter, and dispatch it to the household at Felsted to forward it on if Winifrede and her family are no longer there. This done, I return to my bed and sink into a badly needed, deep sleep.

* * *

By morning, I feel a great deal better, though John has - sensibly - provided only dry bread for me to break my fast, which he has dried slightly beside the fire. Breaking off small morsels, which are eaten slowly and a little tentatively, I look at that coffer again, but rather than immediately open it, instead I go in search of paper, quill and ink - I need to note down that which I was told by Cassandra when she spoke to me through my daughter. This red Knight is not in our plane of existence, but in time shall enter it. A great battle shall open the way for a man on a horse. Shadowsight, whatever this is, enables me to see the red Knight - but he does not want to be seen, which is why he is keen to harm me. This suggests, then, that he is a real being of some sort, rather than a figment of my imagination.

But still, I do not understand what is meant by 'Shadowsight.'

"Cassandra came to me while I was at Felsted, Eminence."

 _She did? How did she manage to do so? She has moved beyond my reach, and I can no longer speak to her_.

"She spoke through my youngest child." I am still rather angry at this - for Agnes is the last of my children unless I marry again, and thus she is precious.

 _Ah. I see - a small child is still very open to those planes of existence that are denied us as we become more aware of the world. Thus Cassandra could approach her and speak through her._

"Perhaps so, but I would have preferred it had she not done so - for when the knight came upon me, he skewered us both, and I watched her die in my arms. Vision or not, it was a dreadful thing to see."

 _She would not have done so had she not thought it essential, Richard. She was famed for her compassion - and to speak through your daughter would have been done only as a last resort._

"But it was merely a warning - and has granted me little more than that which I already knew…" but then I pause…battles…a man on a horse - I have heard that before…

" _I did hear word of an old woman in Honfleur who claimed that a great battle would open the way for a man on a horse - but all thought her to be a harmless old madwoman_."

Wyatt - even in the short time that he was with us, he still aided us as he did when he lived - if she speaks of that, then perhaps she has more information without knowing of it. I must alert the spies…

I look up as the door opens to admit Cromwell, "You look better than you did yesterday."

"I feel better, too." I agree, "And I have learned at least a little which may aid us. Something that Tom said, when he returned from Iberia: a great battle opening the way for a man upon a horse."

"I do not recall…" then he pauses, "The woman from Honfleur - whom everyone claimed to be mad. Of course - did I not say that we should not disregard the statements of those called mad?"

"I shall set the Spies to work upon it at once, Thomas. If she can be found, and her words noted down, then we may learn more - though I suspect that the challenge shall be to extract that which is prophetic from that which is mad."

And, while we wait, there is still the coffer to explore. Perhaps, then, we shall finally identify this 'shadowsight', and understand what the hell is going on.

* * *

The King is most pleased to see that I am well again, even though my indisposition was deeply unpleasant rather than actually dangerous, and I admit that I am glad to have returned to court now that I am back in the thick of things again. I have, however, set aside a small portion of time each day to make a note of what I have done, as I refuse to forget my promise to my daughter. The rest of the time, I am very busy again - as are all of us in the offices - and the arrival of thick snow gives us little opportunity to do much else.

Edward is no longer permitted to participate in snowball fights, alas, for it is beneath the dignity of the King to do so - and he is also obliged to hide his disappointment. Hal, on the other hand, seems quite keen to display his comparative freedom, and is almost gratuitous in his displays of delight when he returns from such benign conflicts covered in snow.

Keen to compensate for such disappointment, Somerset has joined us to discuss some means of providing Edward with opportunities to enjoy himself in this weather without compromising his royal dignity; and thus we arrange for him to enjoy rides out in the park, where he can escape the confines of his position for at least a few hours. Each ride pauses at a large pavilion where his Majesty can enjoy a meal while warmed by a large woodburning stove, and can play chess, or other games, while Hal remains at the Palace. Remarkably, before long, it is Hal who is jealous and resentful. It is hard to be brothers, sometimes.

Given the amount of time that has passed since we first instituted the economic reforms that shall reduce the appallingly extravagant spending of Henry's Court, the results are disappointing to our young King, but such things are not achieved overnight, of course, so it serves as a useful lesson to Edward that sometimes he cannot expect his will to be met instantly - a lesson that his father would have done well to learn, but never really did.

Being at Placentia, I do not have a separate office again, so I preside directly over the offices themselves - as Cromwell used to do before he was elevated to his earldom. Again, I shudder as Wriothesley sits stiffly at his desk, for he does not like me to be present, any more than I like to be there. I have not forgotten his attempt to destroy Cromwell and I through burning a document that exonerated us. I am not sure if he has ever discovered our knowledge of his act, but nonetheless, he looks upon our elevation with envy, and thus I remain wary.

The work of the clerks is quiet, and I find their industry surprisingly soothing as I finish my last items of work for the day. I have not had the opportunity yet to truly investigate the papers that Cecil has uncovered, though I am not overly concerned, for I hope to do so in conjunction with whatever the spies are able to discover from this supposed madwoman in Honfleur. As nothing has yet been reported, I remain in the dark - a situation that is most frustrating, for I am still constantly nervous of another assault by that red Knight.

I am in my chambers when John brings me a package that was handed to him by Baxter. Given the identity of the messenger, I know that I now have what I am seeking, and I ask him to invite Cromwell to join me, and - if he can manage it - to see if he can find something that can be served as supper.

By the time he arrives, I have fetched out the papers that Cecil accumulated, and added them to the report that the spies have obtained. I can only hope that we have not invested too much hope in this - and that it actually does turn out to be helpful. If it is not, then I am not sure what I shall do.

We start with the report of the Spies, as I have less faith in her words than those that Cecil has accumulated. As expected, much of what she says is nonsense - but, now and again, her words mean something to us. There is, of course, that statement about the great conflict, but she goes on to talk of a war that is not at all human in nature - and that this shall enable something far more terrible to arise. This must be the red Knight; but who he is, and why he must rely upon a conflict to emerge is still unexplained.

"Look at this, Richie," Cromwell holds out one of the other papers, and I take it to read the words that it reports.

"Created by the wise, imbued with eyes to see that which men cannot." I look up at Cromwell, "Then we must find something that has been made by human hands?"

"Read on."

"The words are spoken only to the one who is chosen." Again, I raise my eyes, "I am not sure that this helps."

"I am beginning to see light, I think." Cromwell advises, "But that is all that they could determine from her statements - shall we move to Cecil's papers?"

There are not many, for the references were few and far between - and mostly cryptic. The word 'shadowsight' seems not to be used at any point, but one paper speaks of the ability to see all things, and attributes it to the work of men considered to be magical by their people, and suddenly I think I begin to see where Cromwell is leading me.

Then Cromwell pauses, reading something that looks half rotted, thanks to the use of poorly tanned calfskin.

"What?"

"It is hard to read, for it is faded, and the Latin is badly written." He squints closer, "Bear with me, Richie - I shall have to attempt to translate it, for it does not make a great deal of sense."

I watch, as he reads, re-reads, thinks, and reads some more. At length, he frowns, and begins to speak, "I heard tell of men from the great seas of grass to the east, whose wise men forged weapons with magical powers for their chieftains. They say that the greatest of these was made by a man who claimed to come from Palmyra and brought with him the skill to make a form of steel that no man before had ever known. He gave that secret to the wise men, and promised them the world as a gift. With that secret, a sword was forged that they called _ten' zreniye_ , for it possessed eyes that could penetrate the darkest of shadows, and a voice to speak to the one who would wield it. But the chieftain for whom it was made could not hear its voice - and the wise men discovered that it would hear no man, and thus was no more than a sword. And so they slaughtered the man from Palmyra in revenge."

Slowly, I look first at Cromwell, and then my eyes rise to my sword, which remains where I set it - mounted upon my overmantel, "Where is Palmyra, Thomas?" I am suddenly very nervous. I already know the answer, but I wish to hear it from another, in the hopes that I am wrong.

"It is in the Levant." He says, quietly, "Not far from Damascus."

Damascus - that great city where they created the famous, and now forgotten, Damasus steel…the secret given to the chieftains of those great steppes to the east of the known realms of Europe that is familiar only to the traders of the silk road…whose metalworkers where considered to be magicians for their skill to forge steel…a sword, a great sword that answers my call, and will not harm me…

"It is the sword, Thomas." I say, eventually, though I can see that he as guessed just as I have, "Shadowsight is my sword."

* * *

I stand and reach up to bring my sword down off the wall, and wonder what I am now to do with my knowledge; for while we have ascertained that 'Shadowsight' must be the original name of my sword, it does not aid me in understanding why I am being so assaulted by visions, or how it is claimed that I see all things.

"I know that this weapon has bonded to me, Thomas," I talk to him more to set out my thoughts than to explain, "I cannot be deceived by any demon - for I see it in its true form. It cannot be broken or blunted, it comes to me when I call it, and it will not harm me if another attempts to wield it against me. But I cannot see how that should translate into an ability to see all things."

"I suspect that the inability of demons to deceive you when you hold the sword in your hand is a simple manifestation of its ability to see all things, Richie." Cromwell muses, "But it has been bonded to you now for many years, and thus perhaps you are becoming more receptive to its powers - and thus are beginning to truly see all things as claimed, for you no longer need to have it in your hand when it shows you what it can see."

I sit down, suddenly horribly afraid. If I had known, when first I took up the weapon, that it would lead to this, then I am quite certain that I should have refused even to touch it. I am not imbued with powers - I am but a mortal man, and I have no wish to see all things - whether it be a power held by my sword or not.

"Now I know why this red Knight wishes to destroy me." I mumble, "But still I do not know how this power manifests, or even if I am able to use it. Maybe my visions come not from the Knight, but from the sword - its bond to me now strong enough to prevent any dark force from hiding from me - and so I can see the Knight."

Cromwell nods, "It sounds to be so."

Sighing, I reach in for one last paper, and groan, for it seems that there is more, "I see all things, and I know what is to come. I am light where there are shadows, and I choose the one to whom I shall speak." I frown, then, and look more closely at what seems to be a rather fine drawing beneath the words, for it is familiar to me. Setting the paper aside, I draw my blade, and look at the chased design close to the hilt. Yes - it is there. I always thought it to be naught but a pattern; but it seems that it is not. It is a text - and the words are indeed inscribed upon my sword.

"But how does this knowledge aid me?" I complain, "I know now where the visions come from, but I do not understand why they happen, or why they affect me as they do. I cannot know when I shall be struck again - and they grow more dreadful every time I experience them."

Cromwell nods, "But we do now, at least, know the cause of your affliction, and thus we can redirect our efforts to understand it. If we do that, then perhaps we shall find the means by which you learn to control it." He pauses, then, "I suspect that you have been fortunate in one respect, Richie."

"Fortunate?"

"If this ability to see all things enables you to detect all demonic activity, which I suspect it might, then you would be struck far more frequently than has been the case so far."

"God, no - the visions cripple me, Thomas - I lose consciousness when they strike me; how can I even continue to function if that should happen?" I cannot imagine how I should manage if that were to occur.

"There are still no creatures abroad, Richie," Cromwell soothes, "thus we have time to research this further. Let us not assume the worst - but instead hope for the best."

"But you are not driven to unconsciousness by your sensitivity to ichor, Thomas! Nor do you suffer visions of being riven by a great sword!" I am afraid, and it is expressing itself in anger. I know I should not admonish him - for he is not to blame; but with so little knowledge of the danger I am facing, I feel the need to strike out, "What am I to do if I am struck while in a Council meeting? I have no control over when, or how I am incapacitated! Northumberland would relish the opportunity to oust me - for it would give him the confidence to attempt to do the same to you!"

Again, he reaches out and rests a hand upon my shoulder, "I am sorry, Richie. I did not mean to increase your sense of burden. I think, in the light of our discovery, that we could reconvene the Inner Circle, so that her Majesty is aware of your situation. My concern is that there is a threat that we must counter - though we know not what it is, or when it shall come. Why would your sword show you this if there was not?"

"I am frightened, Thomas." I am not afraid to admit it to him - for we have known each other, and been as brothers, for near on ten years, "I never imagined that this would happen when first I agreed to become a Second."

"It would not have happened if there was no need for it, Richie. The fates have never acted without reason. I suspect that much of what we endured when we fought Lamashtu was intended to bring us together as brothers, and to learn to fight together. Furthermore, it seems that this blade, Shadowsight, was forged not for a Steppes warlord, but instead for you. That was why it would not speak to any until it came into your hand - and has now begun to speak to you."

I shake my head, "No, Thomas - I am not meant for great things; I am nothing. A mere man who was once utterly reprehensible and undeserving of any forgiveness by the Almighty. I have no power, no strength…"

"And that is why you have been chosen, I think." Cromwell advises, "For I have no more power than you - other than this strange quirk to sense the odour of demons. Men are not born with power - for our willing spirits are tainted by weak flesh. Thus it lies elsewhere - in mystical objects. As I am protected by the Royal Rosary, so you are aided by Shadowsight. What we must do, and as soon as we can, is find some means to ensure that it does not incapacitate you when it speaks to you. Then we shall be free to set ourselves to the task of working out what it is that we are being warned to prepare for."

* * *

I am not at all sure what to make of what we have discovered; such as it is. Despite Cromwell's assurances that I am not likely to be accused of witchcraft at any point, the fact that my sword has some form of connection to me beyond the mere bond that it forged when first it came into my hands is most disconcerting.

From what we can fathom, however, the sword has given me the facility to see things that should not be seen - though I know not what that might be. Other, of course, than the red Knight - who knows that I can see him and wishes to destroy me so that I can do so no longer. How strange that he knew it before I did.

But do I see the Knight because he is present, or is his presence a mere illusion caused by the sword? That, I cannot begin to guess - and with no means to reach Grant's Place for the time being, I must remain ignorant.

"Can you think of anything that might aid me, Eminence?" I venture. I am not sure why - if he knew something he would have told me; but perhaps the additional revelations may have stirred a memory in him.

He is silent awhile, _I fear not, Richard. I wish that I could; but I cannot even consult Cassandra any longer, so there is little that I can say that shall be useful. I shall, however, consider the matter and see if there is anything that I can find that shall serve._

"Thank you, Eminence. I think we are all in the dark this time - this weapon was forged so long ago that there is no information to explain its purpose to the one who was eventually intended to wield it."

With no other course, I reach up to retrieve the weapon - having replaced it before Cromwell departed to his own apartments. With no idea what else to do, I decide to try speaking to it, even though it shall make me look an utter fool should anyone overhear me.

"I know your purpose now - but I know not how to wield you. Can you not aid me?"

I am not at all surprised that there is no answer - and I am grateful that John is not nearby to hear me talking to a weapon. Sighing, I move to set the weapon aside, only to pause…something - there is something out there…something lurking in the dark…

How do I know that?

Suddenly, I am on my feet, and I turn to the door as it opens, and Cromwell is without.

"There is a ravener in the Court." I tell him.

"I…" he pauses, "you are right, Richie - but then, when is it not a ravener?"

"It's in the Middle Court." The words seem to come to me quite unbidden - how can I know where the damned thing is? But I can see it - the walls rising around it as it lurks in a covered passage, waiting for some unwary wretch to come by…

Cromwell grasps my arm, "Careful, Richie - you are swaying; can you see where it is?"

"Yes…" my head is starting to ache, "We must find it - and quickly, or we shall be too late…"

Then I am sitting, slumped over the table, my head pounding, "Go, Thomas - you must, or it shall find a victim."

"Richie…"

"Go!" I look up at him, again the words snatched from my throat. He does not need to be told again, and hastens to the door, "I shall return when the creature is destroyed."

Slowly, painfully, I look at the weapon, "If this is your means of aiding me, then it is most unhelpful."

Again, there is no answer - though I did not truly expect one. Instead, however, I am suddenly almost impossibly tired, and rest my head upon my arms to await Cromwell's return.

It is a most strange sound that awakens me - a sequence of rattling detonations that sound to come from a gun, but are impossibly fast. Bemused, I open my eyes, and I find myself standing in the midst of a vast expanse of churned mud and water. I do not dare to move, for all about me is unfamiliar, and I cannot be certain whether there is firm ground ahead of me or a quagmire. I am surrounded by mist; but, as it clears, I can see strange coils of something that is interrupted by points or thorns of some kind, while the emptiness is marred by deep holes here and there - and bodies…Oh God…human remains, some of them almost blasted apart…

Slowly, I turn around, and I can see men approaching, picking their way across the awful mess, while above them is a white flag upon which is set a red cross. They are most oddly dressed - their doublets down to their hips, while their upper hose ends at the knee, their lower legs wrapped with thin strips of cloth - all in a strange, drab green, while upon their heads are strange helmets that are shallow on the crown, and give no protection to the neck.

As they approach, I cannot help but speak, "Where is this place? What has happened?"

But they do not see me, and none reply, instead intent upon the route they are taking towards the collection of remains.

And then I see the red Knight - watching me with a vicious intensity that the strangely dressed men are lacking.

He does not speak - but still I hear him. His hatred is even greater now, for he knows that I am beginning to understand what it is that I have.

 _You see what I am_ …

Now _that_ is new - for I do not understand at all what he means. I have always seen what he is - a man in red armour that rides a red horse. I am so intrigued by the comment that I am for a moment forgetful of my fear, and I realise that - this time, he has not moved towards me.

I am, briefly, tempted to approach him; but I do not trust the ground ahead of me, and instead I watch him as he watches me.

And then the silence is broken, as what sounds like a great mortar seems to detonate in the distance, followed a brief time later by a great explosion off to my left that sends the already churned ground upwards in a great fountain of mud - and then there is another, and another. The men who came to tend to the bodies are clasping their helmets to their heads and fleeing as best they can back in the direction from which they came.

My God - now I understand what is happening; I am standing in the midst of a battlefield - but a battlefield unlike any that I could ever have imagined, in even the most fevered of dreams. I do not wish to see more, for it is dreadful…worse even than a siege that has lasted for years.

"Take me back." I do not know why I speak aloud - for no one can see me or hear me, "I have no wish to remain - take me back."

Then I can hear it - a strange whistling noise that seems to grow louder and louder; and I look up, realising that I am in its path. God, what is that? It is enormous - and it shall crush me to nothing…

"Take me back!" I scream, "Take me back _now_!"

The explosion is terrible, and I find myself suddenly afire - my flesh searing, my clothes scorching. I draw in my breath to scream again, but this serves only to draw flames into my chest…

A hand is upon my shoulder, and in an instant it is gone - all of it. I am upon the floor of my quarters, howling in terror, and Cromwell beside me, "Easy, Richie - you are awake now."

"Oh God…oh, my God…" I cannot find words; the horror of that which I witnessed so great that it has stolen them away.

"Come - rest in your chair. I have dispatched he ravener, but I came back to find you stretched out upon the floor and shaking violently. Was it another vision?"

I nod, but still I cannot bring myself to speak. Men lying dead in the mud - their limbs blasted from their bodies…heads blown apart…I have never been upon a battlefield, and I give thanks to God for it…

"You see what I am." Again, the words come from me unbidden.

"Pardon?" Cromwell looks most bemused; and, finally I find that I can speak for myself.

"Something that the red Knight said to me. He did not approach me this time - for we were standing upon a dreadful battlefield that looked utterly unlike anything I have any seen even in the darkest of dreams - but, instead, he said 'you see what I am'."

"That is most strange." He draws up another chair and sits opposite me, "That is exactly what the red Knight said?"

I nod, then wish that I had not, for my head still aches rather painfully.

"Does it mean anything to you?"

He shakes his head, "A Knight, in armour upon the battlefield. It seems quite literal, does it not?" and then he pauses. "God help us."

"What?"

He looks at me, his eyes rather wide, "What if he is not a knight? What if he is not present in a war. What if he _is_ war?"

As he speaks, I begin to see his meaning. _You see what I am_. A man in red armour upon a horse…a great conflict shall open the way for a man on a horse…

War. On a horse…

"God help us all…"

* * *

Queen Jane looks at us, her eyes wide, "That seems most remarkable an assessment, my Lord Cromwell."

I have said nothing, for I am still very shaken by that which I saw - and the import that he has attached to it. Somerset is watching me, concerned. I suppose I must be rather pale; but if what Cromwell has thought to be so is actually true - then we are helpless against what is to come.

"There is still time, Majesty; for this Knight has not yet entered the world. As long as that remains the case, then we are safe - but we must accept that, if Lamashtu was a great threat to us, then this is, perhaps, greater still."

"Tell me of the sword, my Lord Rich," the Queen says, clearly attempting to rouse me from my fear, "what is this new discovery?"

I take a deep breath, to compose myself, "It seems that, when the sword forged its bond with me, it also began to develop a connection of some sort - for it appears that it can reveal things to me that I could not formerly see."

"In what way?" she asks, intrigued

"For some time now, I have been afflicted with strange visions and dreams, Majesty. I had no wish to mention it, for fear of being thought mad, or possessed - and as I did not know the source, what explanation could I give?"

Her Majesty smiles, kindly, "Had it been any other, my Lord, I might have thought so - but after all that I have learned and experienced, I would not think it so with you."

"It is not just seeing things that I could not see before - though I have seen this red Knight frequently; last night I was able to identify that a ravener had entered the court - and I saw where it was. Moreover, I _knew_ that if we did not challenge it, and quickly, it would claim a victim. I can think of at least one other occasion where I have seen things that seem most strange - unless they are manifestations of things yet to come."

"You can see all things. You have shadowsight." Cromwell muses, "It seems that 'everything' is rather wider than we thought."

"But nonetheless, I cannot control when I am overtaken by it, Thomas." I fret, "It is as though, since discovering that Shadowsight is in fact my sword, it has awoken to some degree, and I am becoming more and more helpless against it."

"Then we shall repair to Grant's Place as soon as the weather breaks - for we must find some means of easing this burden that has been placed upon you until you are more able to accept it."

"Gentlemen; Majesty - I fear that we are digressing rather extensively. For there is still the matter for which we have gathered, is there not?"

God, I do not want anyone to say it - for that makes it true.

"The red Knight claimed to be War." Cromwell sighs, "And he is a mounted knight."

"A horseman - called War." Somerset adds.

"And when he opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say 'come and see'; and there went out another horse that was red. A power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another; and there was given unto him a great sword." I murmur, miserably. If it is to be made true to me - then it might as well be from my own lips.

He is the Horseman of War.

And thus we are facing the end of all things.


	19. Out of Control

**A/N:** And on to part three! After freaking everyone out with an impending apocalypse, we're about to discover that there's an exploitable loophole, and thus all is not lost...

* * *

 **PART THREE**

 **Horseman of War**

Chapter Nineteen

 _Out of Control_

The mood at the council table is most strange - for those of us who are aware that we are facing that which was spoken of in the last book of the Bible are rather tense, while those who are not look upon us and wonder who is to be unexpectedly arrested at the table. King Edward is particularly bemused, for this is the one matter that the Queen Regent shall never refer to him. What curse could this be for a child? Not only to be forced to wear a crown so young - but also to find themselves facing the arrival of the Horseman of War - with all that that implies. If we are afraid, then how shall he fare?

Additionally, Somerset is looking most sour, for he has been obliged to deal with a sequence of the most tiresomely importuning letters from his brother Thomas. Now resident at the Palace in Chelsea, following the completion of the renovation works funded by the King as his wedding present to them, the younger Seymour and his dutiful wife live most comfortably upon the immense income from her lands and holdings as they are now, of course, his; but the Lord Admiral is, remarkably, still convinced that he is hard done by, and demands a pension in order to maintain his noble state. In addition, he is keen for preferment, and is intent upon either a peerage or a Court position of a degree that he considers suitable to his standing. Such is his persistence, that any possible opportunity to grant him what he wishes has been driven out by the endless harassment - for all it has achieved is to create further resentment and a stubborn refusal to comply.

Despite the strange atmosphere, we are able to complete the meeting, and his Majesty is most pleased to be advised that we have already begun to diminish the horrific sums that we owe to so many creditors - particularly as the economies that we have implemented have impacted so little upon his own life. I suspect that, were it to do so, he might prove to be a little more his father's son than we realised.

It seems, however, that the truest resistance to our reforms is Prince Hal; who is not at all pleased to discover that the reduction in funds for his household has obliged him to waste far less money than once he did. He is a year younger than Edward, but is already astonishingly profligate; no sooner has he discovered some new excitement, than the previous is discarded. His mother granted him a fine gelding at Christmastide; but already he has tired of it and has been badgering Sir Anthony Browne to secure him another, for he has decided that he does not want a chestnut horse - but instead a black one. Needless to say, the funds to pay for this are limited, and already the Queen has been obliged to intervene, having advised the Master of Horse that the present horse is perfectly adequate. Which it most undoubtedly is. Matters are, naturally, made rather worse by the large numbers of gifts given to the King by his fellow monarchs - through their diplomats. They do not do the same for other members of the family, and it is inevitable that Hal is jealous of his brother's exalted status. He is, after all, too young to understand the diplomatic favours that are expected in return.

While she is aware of the problem, there is little that Queen Jane can do to mitigate it - for she grants her sons equal degrees of gifts; but she cannot demand that each diplomat who approaches with gifts from their masters offer an equal gift for a younger brother. Only the Iberian ambassador did so, for Mary wished to grant gifts to all of her siblings - though Elizabeth is back at Hatfield with her own household for the season, and her gift was dispatched there.

Once the rest of the Councillors have departed, the Queen sits back with a sigh, "Forgive me, Edward, I am tired. If you would like to go through, I shall follow anon."

"Yes, mother." He rises, and we rise with him to bow as he departs.

"I cannot tell him." She says, as soon as the boy has gone, "If this is truly the end of days, then what can we do? It was foretold - and if it is indeed coming to pass, then we must accept it - for it is God's will."

"I am not so sure." Cromwell muses, quietly, "For did not the word of John state that the Horseman upon a red horse would be the second to arrive? If that is so, then where is the first?"

I stare at him, startled - for I had not thought of such a thing. The Revelation to John does indeed speak of a man upon a white horse - granted a Bow and a Crown and sent forth to conquer; though I am sure I read somewhere that some claim him not to be a conqueror, but to be pestilence. If that is so, and I am being shown such things as were prophesied, then why has the man upon the white horse not appeared to me?

"The Archbishop is staying here at present." Somerset says, "He is a friend of yours, is he not, my Lord Cromwell? Perhaps he could aid us?"

"He does not share our secret, your Grace." Cromwell admits, "We have always spoken of it to others only where it is necessary - it has never been so with Mr Cranmer."

"It is a worthwhile point, however." Somerset continues, intrigued, "Might the second horseman have found some way to breach that barrier that keeps his kind at bay?"

Cromwell and I exchange a glance, "The late Sir Thomas Wyatt mentioned something that he overheard while travelling home to England from Iberia, your Grace," I advise, "At the time we thought nothing of it, but since then it has become more relevant and I required the Spies to investigate it. There is an old woman in Honfleur who is thought to be mad - but who, in the midst of her madness speaks words of truth; for she spoke of a great battle that would open the way for a man upon a horse. When we were granted transcriptions of more of her words, her description of that battle was of one that was inhuman in nature. We know that there has been much conflict in the demonic realms for the privilege of attempting to take England as a demonic stronghold - and it suggests most strongly that this is the conflict to which she refers."

"And, in doing so," Cromwell continues, "It would seem that they have weakened that barrier between the spiritual realm and the mortal one - and thus granted War the opportunity to emerge, should he be able to pass by. So far, it seems, he has not."

"But should he do so, I shall be able to see him." I add, "For I have been told so - on numerous occasions, for my sword makes it possible."

"Ah yes - this 'shadowsight'." Somerset agrees.

"Can you describe this conflict that you saw when the Horseman was finally identified, my Lord Rich?" the Queen asks.

"Not easily, Majesty - for, while I have never stood upon a battlefield, it was unlike any that I could have imagined. The field was churned to mud - and long lines of curled metal wires stood along them - it seemed as though additional wires were wound about them, to create thorn-like protrusions. There were no men in sight other than the mangled remains of those who had been felled in battle - and they were hideously mutilated, as though they had been sliced to pieces by a great barrage of twisted metal fragments. When living men finally emerged, they were dressed most oddly - and in remarkably dull clothing, though I could not see their colours, so I knew not for whom they fought. They had no cloaks, and but I think their doublets were more like coats - and their lower legs were girded with wound fabric, from which their upper hose rose to their waists. It was a most strange, dull green - and their helmets were less protective than any I have ever seen - even a barbute of the earliest kind offered more protection - they were mere shallow bowls of metal, as though a rounded dish - but without the wide brim of a kettle-helm."

"No armour of any kind?" Somerset asks, bemused.

"None - though the artillery that the combatants possessed was shocking in its power; I saw one projectile strike the ground, and drive earth into the air in a great fountain that must have lifted forty feet or more. I cannot even begin to estimate the likely volume of ground that was displaced." I pause, for I do not want to recall what happened next, "And then one landed alongside me, and I was engulfed in fire." I find that my hands are trembling - for that is my greatest fear.

"But, if that is so, then it suggests a degree of innovation in artillery that is not yet known." Cromwell advises, "I have fought in battle, albeit many years ago, but even so, I know that we do not have the ability to create projectile weapons that displace such volumes of ground. Thus, I wonder if, in showing you such horrors, we have been granted a chance to avert what is to come - for such an event can only be in future times. If that is so, then how can it be that all shall end now?"

We all share nervous glances - could it be so? Can we truly avert the end of days? If it was foretold, should we even attempt it?

"If we can do so, then we must." Queen Jane murmurs. Despite her devout nature, she has two boys to protect, and would stand defiantly in the face of even the great Archangel Michael if it would keep them from harm.

Cromwell nods, "In which case, we shall presume that this is not the commencement of the apocalypse, and take steps to repel the Horseman of War. If his emergence is in defiance of that which was foretold, then we are free to do what we can to stop him."

Somerset nods, "Amen to that."

* * *

John Dudley is busy at work in the offices, reading through and cataloguing a number of papers relating to the ongoing economic reforms of King's expenditure under Wriothesley's supervision. Since his request to apprentice himself to us, he has worked alongside Cromwell, Mr Griffin and me - learning what we do, understanding how we do it and why. In that time, he has proved to be a most helpful and astute man; and he has also forged quite a friendship with Gregory, who is now back in the offices as Parliament has risen again.

The weather is beginning to clear, and the length of time that we have spent at Placentia is beginning to become evident in the state of the middens. It is, therefore, likely that we shall move soon, and I am most hopeful that we shall see in the spring at Whitehall, for then it shall be a simple matter to visit Grant's Place, and search for some means to repel one of the horsemen that shall herald the time of trial. If it could also be possible to enable me to control the visions that my sword shows me, then I shall be a much happier man, despite the trial that we are about to face.

I have been fortunate, in that nothing has struck at me since that vision of that ghastly conflict; but I have dreamed several times, and always it is of war - but no form of war that I have ever seen; great ships of a size that would dwarf even _Botafogo_ from which emerge strange machines that fly; a great projectile of horrific size lifts from the ground in a great plume of flame and smoke, quartered with black and white. People - endless streams of men, women and children making their way across country with what little they can carry, seeking sanctuary from horrors worse than anything I could envisage. Even when I wake, those images remain firmly trapped inside my mind, and will not disperse.

As he works, Dudley considers everything with a most careful eye, but not in a manner that would suggest that he is attempting to find something to use against us. While his father is most keen to displace Somerset, Cromwell and I - for we are the ones who hold the balance of Power at the council table - John and Ambrose between them are not. Ambrose has no inheritance, any more than Robert does; so he looks for fame in honourable deeds and hard work, as does his elder brother. They are proving to be most worthwhile and capable councillors who shall serve Edward well in time. I just hope that their father does not jeopardise their reputations by bringing himself down through plots and intrigues.

While I have seen nothing of it myself, Cromwell has heard rumours that suggest a strong friendship is forming between Northumberland and Prince Henry - who is quite convinced that he has been slighted in some way owing to the attention his elder brother receives. I think we are all aware that, while Edward has inherited his mother's calm and common sense, Hal has inherited his father's impetuosity and capriciousness. As a consequence, he is eager to be lionised as the centre of attention - which leaves him ripe for intriguing and flattery. Even though he is but nine years old, a subtle, patient approach could well net him entirely, and he could even attempt to stand against the King - for he is quite belligerent enough to do so, if managed appropriately.

I suspect that, were it not for the presence of the Queen, Northumberland might well have made similar overtures to Edward; but he has his mother at his side, and she rules in his stead while he is a child. Thus he looks elsewhere in hopes of finding the prominence and preferment he seeks. Perhaps we should find some means to step between them - but if we have left things too late, then I cannot see how we can win Hal's trust.

It seems something of an insoluble problem, and so I set it aside, for I have a great deal of work to do. While we have indeed managed to free up some funds to repay a number of debts, the remainder are still dreadful to contemplate, and I am not sure at all whether we shall ever truly be able to clear them. What is worse, the coinage is so debased that it is practically worthless, and in order to restore that value, we shall need to purchase silver - which we cannot afford without increasing our obligations even further. It is quite a conundrum, and one that is not entirely mine to consider, for I am not chancellor of the exchequer. Having held that position himself before now, Cromwell is also thinking on the problem; though he has no idea how to tackle the issue any more than I do. I suspect that we shall have to accept that further debt is inevitable, and hope that we can find a lender who will aid us.

The news of progress upon the network of roads, on the other hand, is far more positive, for it is clear that making the routes easier to travel has been of remarkable benefit to trade across England, and this is being reflected in the ports, for certainly more ships are both leaving and arriving. The lack of an ongoing war to interrupt such commerce is equally beneficial, and I think that this, more than anything that we can do shall aid the nation's finances. If nothing else, we can tax the goods that come in.

I look up to find Wriothesley is standing at the side of my desk, and I struggle to repress a shudder - for even now he still unnerves me, "A steward is without, my Lord. The Regent has summoned you."

Bemused, I nod, "Thank you, Mr Wriothesley; please see to it that the papers I have set aside on the sideboard are archived. I shall repair to the hall to dine as soon as I have finished my meeting."

The Regent is in her Privy Chamber, with only Lady Rochford in attendance, and I am surprised to find that I am alone, for neither Somerset nor Cromwell are present.

"Majesty?" I am rather bemused; more so when I realise that she is looking rather distressed.

"Forgive me, my Lord; I did not wish to trouble my Lord Cromwell with so little a matter; and I am aware that you have both a young daughter and several grandchildren with whom you have spent some time recently."

"Perhaps so, Majesty - but I could not claim to be a good father, for I have rather neglected my children though absence. It is only recently that I have rediscovered the pleasure of young faces in a household."

She sighs, "I am afraid it is my second son, my Lord; he has become most remarkably unpleasant over the last few weeks. While he has always been impetuous and strong willed - very much like his father, of course - it seems to me that he has become almost impossibly insubordinate to me, and to his Uncle, to the point that he has openly defied him."

This surprises me, for Hal is still less than ten years old, and his behaviour seems more akin to that of someone who has embarked upon that final passage from boyhood to manhood. It seems, however, that our fears that Northumberland is interfering in his education are perhaps grounded.

"I cannot fathom why this is happening, my Lord, for Hal refuses to confide in me - as though we are his enemy. I am not his father, and thus I cannot command him, for he is a man."

"Has his Majesty tried?" I venture, "While he is a child himself, he is still the elder brother and, more importantly, his Highness's lawful King. Regardless of any brotherly rivalry between them, his Highness cannot disobey an order from his King."

She shakes her head, and I know why she has not agreed to such a thing. Hal resents King Edward quite enough as it is, and to cause further discord by obliging the elder boy to dictate to the younger would be foolish, "Forgive me, Majesty - I did not think."

"Perhaps you can explain why this is happening?" She asks, plaintively, "You are a younger brother, are you not?"

Ah, now I see why she has called upon me, "Yes, Majesty, I am. I was obliged to find my own way in the world, as I was not to inherit; but I was given all manner of opportunities to do so, and thus I flourished - though I did so in a most unscrupulous manner until I became the Second to the Raven. Consequently, I did not develop resentment against my elder brother - particularly as I have since rather eclipsed him, as I am wealthier, ennobled and I have more properties." I redden slightly at that admission.

"Perhaps that may be the best approach, then." She muses, "We must find some means to occupy him - a ceremonial purpose despite his tender years? He seems to long for approval and attention, so if we can find some healthy means of enabling him to achieve his desires, perhaps it is not too late to reach him before his disaffection becomes outright hatred."

"You think it might become so, Majesty?" I ask, startled.

"I was never blind to my husband's faults, my Lord," She sighs, "I am well aware that he could, if the desire took him, be cruel and vindictive, as much as he could be warm and magnanimous. Consequently, if Hal has inherited those faults, then I am afraid that those who wish to gain power for themselves might find him amenable to act against his own brother. I do not see inherent evil in him, but nonetheless, he is more open to it than his brother, for he is easily flattered."

I am at a loss - for it seems that her Majesty is unaware that the influence she must fear is in the hands of one of her own councillors. Do I tell her that Northumberland is the one who is cultivating Prince Henry, and that he sees the younger son as a conduit to advancement and power? But then, I do not know with any certainty that this is even true - for it is mere rumour.

"I suspect that it shall be difficult to do so, Majesty, as we are all far older than his Highness. Perhaps a younger man? Someone whom he might admire?"

"Do you have anyone in mind, my Lord?"

What I am thinking shall be rather a gamble, but I am sure that the risk is less than it might be if we attempted to reach the boy ourselves, "I think perhaps one of the sons of Northumberland - Ambrose for choice, for he is younger. I would have suggested Robert, but of course he is studying in Italy, so that is not possible."

The Queen nods, interested; and I hope that I have not taken a bad situation, and made it worse.

* * *

It could not be more obvious that the Prince does not trust us. His hostility is writ large upon his face, and I am not sure whether it is thanks to our close working relationship with his elder brother, or whatever rumours Northumberland has been feeding to him. As we have not seen him doing so, it is impossible to know.

He has come to meet with us at Queen Jane's request, for she is keen to find him something worthwhile to do. Being as young as he is, of course, there is no formal role that he can undertake, but his value in diplomatic terms is high - for neither his gender nor his legitimacy speak against him as it did against his sisters. Indeed, we have already received overtures from various Courts, seeking him as a husband for Royal daughters - though Queen Jane has vetoed them all as she has no wish to increase his resentment even further by considering such approaches without his involvement. Being at the stage where he despises all girls, however, the concept of being tied to one is quite abhorrent; and thus he refuses to even consider the idea.

"Your Highness." Cromwell bows deeply.

"My Lord." Hal snaps back, his tone most unfriendly, "I am here at my mother's command - not because I want to be."

"I appreciate that, Highness." Cromwell answers, benignly, "Her Majesty the Queen Regent is keen to give you a place within the Government; for, when you are of age, England shall be glad of your presence as a diplomat, perhaps - or a high-level representative of her interests with the Princes of our European neighbours."

He shrugs. God, this is going to be hard.

"And what is that to me?" he demands, crossly, "Consorting with old men?"

Christ have mercy - he is but nine years old, but his father's volatile temperament could not be more painfully obvious. He is clearly unafraid to speak rudely to his Brother's highest Ministers - and views us dismissively.

"What is it that you want, your Highness?" Cromwell asks, blandly.

"To have all that is rightfully mine!" the boy snaps back, his youthful impetuosity overcoming his discretion. Fortunately, Cromwell does not probe further, and shows no emotion, as though the unguarded statement was nothing more than an observation of the weather. His expression now sullen, the boy looks at us both resentfully, "May I go, _my Lords_?"

Cromwell rises, and bows, "Your Highness." We stand and watch as the child stalks out like his father used to do.

I turn to him, "That went well."

He sighs, "About as well as I expected, Richie. He has been subject to slanderous whisperings, I think - and I suspect that the rumoured source is true. At least now we know what we are dealing with - and I think asking Ambrose to intervene for us may be worthwhile, for he lacks his father's overarching ambition; and is keen to earn honours through honest service. He is of the Dudley line, but has a level head."

"Though I fear that we shall be placing him in a most difficult position, Thomas. He is being asked to act in a manner contrary to his father's interests."

"Given that his father's interests presently seem to involve flattering and befriending the King's younger brother for reasons that are, as yet, unknown, I suspect that Ambrose shall be as keen as we are to ensure that this does not lead to chaos; though we must take great care - for we are, as you have said, asking him to act against his own father."

We adjourn back to Cromwell's office, where he pours out two glasses of Sack, "I think it should be you who approaches the younger Mr Dudley, Richie; my own reputation is such that I have no doubt that word shall get back to his father - and thus we shall find our plans in ruins before we have even commenced them. He has not spent time working with you, has he?"

"Not as yet, Thomas. I had thought to set him to work alongside Mr Griffin before the week is out, but it would be a simple matter to ask him to join me - for I have not advised him of the next assignment I have for him."

"Then that is what we shall do."

And so we must lay plans of deception once again. Why must Northumberland be so keen to gain ascendancy over Somerset? If only he were more willing to earn the trust of the Regent and the King, rather than assume that both are beyond him because of the family ties they have. He seems not to appreciate that, even in Somerset's mind, talent is of vital importance to the future prosperity of the Realm; and, even if it were not in his mind, the Queen is most certainly aware of its importance and would recognise its worth. Regardless of the power that Somerset might have, he is not the Regent, and there is no crown upon his head.

Our plan agreed, I return to the main offices and to my desk. Until we return to Whitehall, that remains my domain, and I can see both Dudley brothers are at work, John at a desk of his own, with Daniel at his side; Ambrose busy with a set of papers that he is considering for filing and archiving. He is remarkably capable in that respect, and has developed an excellent understanding of the processes of government that Cromwell is endeavouring to establish. Consequently, he has become a helpful advocate of our methods at the Council table, albeit diplomatically given his father's determination to retain the old ways.

He is soon finished, and crosses to my desk, "I have completed my assessment of the terms for the proposed Department for overseas diplomacy, my Lord. My report shall be ready by the end of the day."

"Thank you, Mr Dudley; I should be most grateful if you could be available to work with me from tomorrow, once you have presented your findings to the Lord Chancellor."

He smiles, bows and departs. Now to see if his interest in stable government is strong enough to overcome his duty to his father.

* * *

The conversation that awaits me shall be most difficult, I fear, and I have found a quiet chamber away from the offices in order to conduct it. I have no wish to place Ambrose Dudley into an impossible decision, and thus I must offer him every chance to decline without fear of political or personal repercussions. If he decides that he must inform his father, however, the repercussions for us shall be extremely difficult to settle - even if no longer fatal as once it might have been when Henry ruled over us all.

When he arrives, he looks most intrigued, and consents to sit, "Forgive me for the clandestine nature of our discussion, Mr Dudley; what I am about to ask you is likely to anger you, for it shall place you in something of a dilemma. Before I begin, I give you my absolute assurance that the request I intend to make of you is entirely out of concern for the security and safety of the realm; and were it not so, I would never ask it."

To my surprise, however, he merely sighs, "The Prince."

I look at him, startled, and he continues, "Forgive me, my Lord - it has been a matter of concern to me for some time, but I knew not how to approach it. Upon the surface, it looks most innocent; but I am not blind to the undercurrents of ambition that flow beneath it. Having spent so much time in the Departments of government, I have come to appreciate how the world in which we live is changing, both here and overseas; and these unprecedented years of peace have been only of benefit to us. I have grown up knowing such peace."

"And you fear that it might be disturbed, Mr Dudley?"

He looks at me, "Please do not ask me to conspire with you, my Lord…"

I raise my hands at once, "I assure you, Mr Dudley, I would never ask you to do such a thing. The repercussions of a conspiracy are far reaching, and capture the innocent as much as the guilty - especially so when there are none that are truly guilty, or truly innocent. I suspect that we all believe that we act in the best interests of the Realm, and I should far prefer it if we all worked together, rather than at cross purposes. Believe me, if you wish to have no further part of this discussion, you are free to depart, and it shall never be spoken of again. I have no more wish to be involved in conspiracies than you - for I have seen, and endured, the consequences of such activity."

Rather than rise, however, he remains seated and looks pensive, "It is impossible to reside in our apartments and not be aware of what is happening. The Prince is young, and does not understand the burden that has been placed upon his brother. He sees only the glory and pomp - and the deference to which his Majesty is due; and thus is envious for he does not receive it to an equal degree. I have read of many stories of Kings destroyed by a younger brother eager for their power, and at such a tender age, his Highness is ripe to be befriended and persuaded that he is of greater consequence than he truly is."

"He said to that he desired to have all that was rightfully his." I murmur, "Which is most strange, for he has it."

"Not if there were…irregularities…with his brother's birth."

"What?" I stare at Dudley, shocked, "In what way?"

He looks a little helpless, "The suggestion that…after so long without a child, her Majesty conceived. Thus perhaps another was the father…"

"There are some who believe such a thing?" I ask, my voice low.

He nods, "Some."

"I do not ask you to name names, Mr Dudley; regardless of assumptions one way or another. But this rumour is wholly false, I can assure you. Any who looks upon his Majesty could not accept such a claim, for he bears the red-gold crown of his line, as does the Lady Elizabeth."

"And, it does also beg the question, if it took so long to conceive the first child - and another was sought to facilitate it - then why would the second have been conceived with such ease if the same method was not used?"

Ah. Logic. Always a most intractable problem when attempting to construct a false conspiracy, "I think the days of poisonous liaisons to destroy one another are past, Mr Dudley - at least, I hope that to be so. Thus, again, I do not ask for names, nor do I ask you to enter into any conspiracy against any other member of the Council. Instead, I ask that you befriend the Prince, and seek to find some means to redirect his energies into more useful pursuits, such as riding, hunting and sports. If he is so occupied, and finds friendship with a man closer to himself in age, then perhaps we can reduce his sense of envy. It may also be useful to demonstrate to him that all is not light and joy in his brother's world."

He smiles, then; "I thought you to be a most accomplished conspirator, my Lord Rich."

"I was indeed, Mr Dudley - but I also have been the victim of a conspiracy and it caused me great pain. Thus, when we acted against my Lord of Surrey, we did so with great reluctance; for we had no alternative. I have no wish to ever act in such manner again."

"I am grateful, my Lord. I am happy to befriend his Highness. I think that he shall trust me, for the reasons that you have likely guessed - and thus I hope that we can indeed turn him from thoughts that might be considered treacherous before things go too far."

"And so no heads shall topple." I add, "For God knows we have seen enough of that."

* * *

It is clear from his expression that Northumberland is none the wiser over my conversation with his son. A man of his conceit would have no skill at inscrutability - a failing that I share, I fear - and thus, had he heard that we were attempting to spoke his wheel, I have no doubt that I would be the subject of a most unpleasant glare. As it is, his expression is proud, and even slightly smug, for he must know by now that we have attempted to speak to the Prince, and that he has rebuffed our overtures.

For a boy of ten years, King Edward is remarkably willing to give up his afternoons to a monumentally dull brace of hours where a table-full of greybeards discuss the economy, roads and foreign diplomacy. Certainly his father was not so willing - but at the age of ten, there was no intention of his ever becoming King. Fortunately, Queen Jane has already arranged for him to spend the rest of the afternoon out in the Park with his falcons - more than adequate compensation, I am sure; for we all know how he enjoys such pursuits.

And it seems that Prince Hal longs for this? How little he knows.

The Regent plans to sup with her sons in private this evening, so there is no need for us to be present in the Hall. Consequently, Cromwell joins me for supper, and is most pleased with the haunch of venison that John has secured for us.

"I cannot understand why Northumberland is so keen to cultivate Prince Henry." Cromwell sighs, "For, unless he intends to remove the King - which I cannot accept is his intention - there would seem to be no purpose to it. Surely he would be attempting to ingratiate himself with his Majesty in hopes of supplanting Somerset?"

"Indeed so." I agree, "Thus I am grateful that Ambrose Dudley is in agreement that the future of our Kingdom is served best by a united government. I have not asked him to conspire against his father, for I know he could not do it, and I should rather that we did not mar this reign with endless conspiring as we did in the last. Instead, he shall do what he can to divert the Prince with sports and pastimes that shall engage his intelligence and energy."

"Indeed." Cromwell sighs, "I, too, wish to be done with the ghastliness of conspiracies. I have too many innocent deaths upon my conscience - and too few guilty ones. I have no wish to add more - for there are always innocents who are destroyed along with the guilty."

We talk of trivialities as we sup, as though there was no matter of life and death glowering over us. Not that we wish to hide from it, of course; but what can we do until we have returned to Grant's Place? Instead we reminisce, recalling our past adventures, and our pleasant times with Tom Wyatt. It seemed so desperate in those days - but now that we view it from the distance of years, it seems quite a magnificent adventure - and one that I should delight in were I to have it presented to me as a work of fiction.

It is as we are seated before the fire with a cup each of hippocras that it happens; a horrible shock of fear that comes upon me quite without warning. As I did previously, I see a ravener, lurking with ghastly intent somewhere in the Palace, and I know - I _know_ , that if it is not destroyed tonight, it shall kill. Again, my head begins to pound, and I clasp my hands to my head, "Ravener - Privy Garden by the Church of Observant Friars. Hurry."

Cromwell does not hesitate, "I shall see to it. Sit quietly, Richie."

"But what if you are too stiff…"

"I am not; my apothecary has provided a new mixture that is proving most efficacious. Rest here, and I shall return to you as soon as it is dispatched." He rises, and is quickly gone.

I feel as though I am burning with a ghastly fever, the hideous image still in my mind; but that is not all - it is as though my senses are widening - and I can see beyond the immediate precincts of the palace. God - no…they are coming back. There are raveners abroad…

I feel myself beginning to topple to the side - and then fall into darkness.

* * *

I awaken lying atop my bed, my doublet and shoes removed and a cloak set over me. The room is quite dark, but for a single candle, and I am not surprised to see Cromwell seated in a chair beside me.

"I am sorry, Thomas. I cannot control when this strikes me, or predict it."

"I am more concerned that this might be affecting you adversely, Richie."

"That is of no matter, Thomas - you must know. While you were gone, I was shown more. It seems that whatever battle was occurring, it has ended - for raveners are emerging again."

He sighs, "You have confirmed a suspicion that is already in my mind, Richie. I sensed ichor even as I made my way to the Privy Garden - and I do not think it was owing to a single creature."

"What do we do?"

"Fight as we need to, and get to Grant's Place as quickly as we may. If we are fortunate, then we shall move to Whitehall and thus the visit shall be more simple to arrange."

Fortune, however, appears to be looking the other way.

As we gather for the afternoon's council meeting, it is clear that the Regent is keen for us to move again, but she advises that she has left the decision upon our destination to the King.

"Now that the last works are complete, Gentlemen," he says, sounding rather excited at the prospect, "I have decided that we shall go to Nonsuch."

Everyone is most surprised at this, though not disagreeably so; except, of course, for Cromwell and I - though he does a much better job of concealing it than I do.

"An excellent idea, Majesty," he says, "I have a considerable amount of paper work to be transferred to the archives at Whitehall, so - with your consent, of course - my Lord Rich and I shall depart a week prior in order to oversee the works there, before joining you at the Palace?"

Northumberland's expression is most odd; almost an expression of surprised satisfaction - as though he is pleased that we shall be away from the Court for that time. Why he should be thinking so, I cannot fathom…

And then, suddenly, he is dressed not in dark green, but blood-red velvet, and he is raising a Duke's coronet to his head that is drenched in blood and upon which two wings are set - but they are burning…

Shocked, I clench my eyes tightly shut and shake my head briskly, and immediately the vision is gone, and Northumberland is again dressed in dark green.

"Are you well, my Lord Rich?" the King asks, worriedly.

"Forgive me, Majesty, I thought that an insect landed upon my ear, but I think I must have imagined it." Thank God my voice is not shaking; for now the the vision has cleared, I am still left with a dreadful sense of awful fear that I can neither explain nor dismiss. It is not so great that I cannot conceal it, however, and I am able to continue the meeting with at least a semblance of calm.

Northumberland is quick to depart at the end of the meeting, and as soon as he has left the room, that sense of horror is gone. I cannot say exactly what he is doing - but it could not be clearer that he is engaged in some act or other that shall bring harm upon the Kingdom in some way or other. Though it is impossible to know at this moment what that act might be other than that which he is already undertaking. Oh God - I need to control this damned connection to my sword.

Cromwell is beside me, "What happened to you?" he is, naturally, not fooled by my stupid explanation for the sudden shake of my head. Fortunately, the Regent has departed with Somerset and the King, for I have no wish for them to hear of the vision that was forced upon me.

"My sword showed me something again." I admit, "I am concerned, for it was rather allegorical; but I think I understood its meaning enough to know that I should rather not speak of it to his Grace or her Majesty at this time."

"Then we shall repair to my office and discuss it there."

* * *

His expression is intent as he considers the vision that I have described to him, "It could not be more clear, could it? Northumberland is keen to remove Somerset, and stand in his stead."

I do not speak; but I nod.

"I had hoped that we would be past this sort of nonsense." He says, crossly, "Does he not realise that what matters is the welfare of the Kingdom? All that we shall achieve with endless, _stupid_ plotting is a government that is divided against itself, and what use is that to his Majesty?"

"There is still much to be gained for a Nobleman through royal favour, Thomas; Northumberland could hardly be unaware of the rewards that could be granted to those who were favoured by his late Majesty. That we intend to work differently is meaningless to one who is keen upon restoring the old ways and becoming a power behind the Throne. It could not be clearer that he sees Somerset as having such sway - even though he does not. Her Majesty would never allow it."

"And thus he must burn the Seymour wings."

"How to do it? His Majesty is aware of the need to rule alongside his Government, and accepts it - but his Highness sees only the power that a Crown can bring. If he can remove the Duke, set aside the Regent and ensure an unfortunate accident claims the King - then he shall have control of a youth who revels in flattery and is content to act upon a whim."

"It is how I should do it if I were he." Cromwell agrees; then sighs, "And the timing could not have been worse - for I am beginning to sense ichor again. It would appear that we are to return to our former duties."

I am about to nod, when again, I am struck, my hands clutching at my head, "God!"

"Where is it, Richie?" he knows what has happened.

"Not now!" I wail, miserably, "Not here and now! They come out at night!" How can I even hope to be of use if I am incapacitated by day? "Oh, my God!"

My shoulders are grasped, "Where is it?"

It is a monumental effort to speak, for the pain is ghastly now, "Ravener, in the cellars - waiting to come out…its mind is a sewer…"

"Which cellars?" Cromwell asks.

"I cannot tell."

"I shall find it." He says, quickly, "We must away to Grant's Place as soon as time permits - no, regardless of whether time permits. This cannot continue. I shall speak to the Regent as soon as I have found and dispatched that ravener."

The words sound strange and far away, and I realise that I am barely able to stay awake. What use am I if I cannot stop myself from such torment? There is no answer, of course - and once again, I fall into darkness.


	20. An Error of Judgement

**A/N:** \- Thanks for the thumbs up, Catalinadelvalle, and thank you, too, for yours, Blurgle, I really appreciate your comments, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

Religious reform hasn't played much of a part in proceedings so far, but that's about to change...

* * *

Chapter Twenty

 _An Error of Judgement_

I have remained in my quarters all day today, pleading a severe headache. That I am speaking the absolute truth is no consolation, for I cannot prevent these ghastly attacks, nor can I predict them. The discovery that raveners are beginning to emerge from the shadows again serves only to make matters worse, for it seems that, in granting me the ability to never be deceived by a demonic presence even when it is no longer in my hand, my sword appears most keen to ensure that I am aware of each and every incursion that takes place.

It is clear to me that I am utterly unprepared to carry such a burden, for when I held the weapon in my hand, it did not have such a violent impact upon me - but now that it does not need to even be where I am, its disturbance upon me is insupportable. And I have no means of quelling it.

If I cannot continue to work without the constant fear of collapse, then I am helpless to work in the Court; but my presence here is still required, and thus I have no alternative but to find some means or other to repress it. Gift or no, it is a painful one to bear, and I am not prepared in any way to carry it. Not when we are facing a greater threat even than Lamashtu.

At least the weather is improving, for Spring is almost upon us. Thus, the Regent, with the agreement of the King, has decreed that we shall move to Nonsuch at the end of March. With two weeks to prepare, Wriothesley is overseeing the most important works, and so Cromwell and I shall depart a week early, on the pretext of attending the main offices at Whitehall, to spend a week at Grant's Place to search the library again, before we travel south to the Palace.

I am also concerned by that vision that troubled me in the Council chamber; where I saw Northumberland dressed in red and raising Somerset's coronet to his own head as his rival's sigil burned. Even as I think it, I feel that strange sense of deep fear that troubled me so as soon as I emerged from the vision. Somehow, I cannot shake the thought that the reason for my fear is that Northumberland's plans are not entirely devoid of infernal involvement. It is - alas - no more than a mere feeling that this is so; and thus I have not spoken of it, for I have no evidence to offer in support of my view. It is just that: a feeling.

My head has cleared by the following morning as Cromwell awaits me at the water gate, where a goodly sized barge is waiting to ferry us upriver to the Tower Wharves. The Coxswain is an old friend of Cromwell's, and he shall let it be known that we were ferried up to London Bridge - if the river is too dangerous to pass between the starlings - or to the Privy Stair at Whitehall if it is not.

As the barge is one of the larger vessels, we are able to enclose ourselves in the small cabin, for our discussions are not fit for the oarsmens' ears.

"Have you endured any further incursions, Richie?" is his first question - which does not surprise me in the slightest.

"None, Thomas - but it has been no more than a day, so I do not hold out hope for freedom from such torment until we have found some means to secure it."

"There is something else, is there not?" he asks, pointedly. He has known me for ten years or more, and been a friend closer to me than a brother for many of those ten years. He can read me with astonishing accuracy.

"There is. But this is not the place to discuss it. I should rather wait until we are at Grant's Place."

The weather is benign, and thus the river is quite calm; which is always a great relief to me, as I have never forgotten a dreadful journey from the Tower to Greenwich in the midst of an autumn squall of such viciousness that even the oarsman was afraid that his wherry would overturn and we would die. Free from such distraction, I am content to sit back in the comfortable chair and merely enjoy quiet conversation upon matters of government policy and anticipation of our quarters at Nonsuch, for neither of us have been to the newest and - we are told - most grand of Henry's palaces. It had never been quite finished before he passed away - and thus his visits were largely for hunting parties only, and we were far too busy for such excursions.

"I am told the Palace is most opulent." Cromwell smiles, "I should think it is - given what we paid for it."

"I look forward to seeing the new banqueting hall," I admit, "I am told it is octagonal, and that the panelling is beautifully executed in a sequence of marvellously bright colours."

"To match the sweetmeats, no doubt."

I am not surprised to find that Cromwell has sent ahead that we are coming, and there is a small carriage awaiting us at the wharves. It is, as always, a rattling journey over rough cobbles, but the upholstery is relatively soft, and the journey short, so I am not complaining. Even being rattled to hell is preferable to an uphill walk after two hours on a boat.

Miss Parsons is awaiting us, and follows us inside, "I am glad that you are here, my Lord - I am afraid Mrs Dawson's health is most precarious, and that you have not come a moment too soon."

Cromwell does not reply; he pauses for a moment, and then hastens upstairs without a word. I see little purpose in following, for the Goodwife did not recognise me when I visited her last. That said, if this is our last opportunity to see and speak with her, then I shall do so without hesitation.

"Richie," Cromwell's voice comes down the stairs from above, "I think you should come up."

I feel a small lurch in the pit of my stomach, and mount the stairs with some trepidation, as Cecil emerges from the Library Chamber and watches with a rather sad expression.

The man standing outside the door as I approach Goodwife Dawson's bedchamber is dressed in black, and clearly a physician. His expression is rather grim, and I feel a sense of nervous dread as I enter. She is abed, I note, as she was when I saw her last, and a young kitchen maid is seated nearby, presumably present as a nurse.

"…Such a good man." Her voice is faint, and her breathing weak, "the Cardinal always looked after us."

"Willingly, Mrs Dawson." Cromwell smiles at her, holding her hand, "For you equally took care of us, and I am most grateful for your kindness."

She looks into his eyes, "Such a handsome boy you were…so thin and nervous when you first came to us."

"Indeed I was." He says gently, "thin as a pole, and new to my profession."

"Never had a son," she wheezes on, softly, "Took you under my wing, I did. And so proud…so proud of you."

I find a stool and sit on the other side of the bed, taking her other hand, and she looks at me, "Mr Rich…"

"Hello Mrs Dawson."

"I am pleased that you are here." She says, softly, "You were always such a good friend to my dear boy. Like a son to me…"

"The Doctor said it is likely to be today, Richie." Cromwell says, very sadly.

"Then we shall stay, shall we not?" I sympathise, "I shall speak to William - we shall not commence work until she is at rest."

He nods, and I slip back downstairs. Cecil is still in the hall, and looks up as I come down the stairs, "The physician has been with her this morning, Richard. He does not expect her to see tomorrow's dawn - so your arrival was most fortunate."

Even though I am aware that her time is almost upon her, I still find Cecil's words hard to accept and rather painful, "I agree, for she is most pleased to see Thomas; and even seemed pleased that I was here."

"She is fond of you as well, Mr Rich." Miss Parsons tells me.

"Though I did not appreciate that she regards Thomas as a son. In some ways, his Eminence did much the same; so, even though he found himself all but orphaned, he found a new mother and father." I look back, "I should return."

"If you require victuals, please send Alice downstairs to advise me."

It seems, however, that I shall not need to; for, to my dismay, the kindly old lady has passed away in my absence. As I return, Cromwell is still holding her hand, and looks up at me, "It was peaceful, Richie - as though she simply fell asleep; and mere moments ago."

"I am truly sorry, Thomas." I return to my seat, and look across at him as he gazes sadly into the peaceful face of his faithful housekeeper.

"I can still remember the day that I arrived in this house, Richie," He murmurs, "I was introduced to William, and then to his Eminence - but it was Margaret Dawson who truly welcomed me and made me feel that the house could be a home."

"If you wish, Thomas, I can set to work on the initial arrangements?"

He looks up at me, and I see dampness about his eyes, "I should appreciate that. We shall ensure that she is laid to rest with respect and honour."

In that, at least, I can be of assistance. A woman of her class would not be privileged to be granted a tomb; and, indeed, were it not for Cromwell's wealth, she would only be granted a coffin to carry her from the house to the church, before being buried only in a shroud. Instead, however, she shall be laid to rest in the coffin that shall bear her from this place, and shall receive a headstone; just as Cromwell's late manservant, William, did before her.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"I do not think so. Thank you, Richie." His eyes are back upon her face again, and I know that he requires privacy. Thus, I withdraw to allow him to mourn.

Cecil has returned to the Library chamber, and I join him there, "I am sorry, Richard. Thank God you arrived when you did; for she was most intent that she see Thomas one last time before she passed."

"And thus she did."

His expression rather unsure, Cecil reaches behind him for a sheaf of papers, "I appreciate that this is likely not the best time, Richard, but I have spent the last week searching for any further references to your two problems. Now that we have identified Shadowsight, it has proved to be rather less of a difficulty than previously, and I have found some papers which may aid us. Once we have completed the required service to Mrs Dawson, then perhaps we may peruse them."

I am hard put to stop myself from reaching for the papers at once, for I am most keen to find whatever means I can to suppress the sudden and unexpected interruptions that are inflicted upon me by my sword; but I must not do it. Not yet - for we must first see to the consignment of Margaret Dawson to God.

"I shall miss her, William." I admit, a little tearfully, to my embarrassment, "She was a good woman, and looked after us well."

"Then there shall be a place for her in heaven, I think." Cecil answers, "And soon she can mother all around her again, as she did in life."

I smile at the thought, "And she shall be most happy."

* * *

It is, perhaps, just as well that Cecil has been so busy, for the first two days after our arrival are taken up with the formalities associated with Goodwife Dawson's passing. As we did with William, we have turned to the Priest at the Church of St Leonard, and there is ample space for her to be interred beside him. Long widowed herself, she did not have a plot to be laid in alongside her late husband, and it is likely that his grave has already been reused - for that is the fate of the mortal remains of the poor after they have departed the world.

That will not be so for her, any more than it was for William, for their resting places shall be marked, and Cromwell has taken great care to ensure that no others shall share the ground in which they lie.

We make a most sombre group as we stand around the grave, our mood defiant of the glorious sunshine that casts gentle shadows around us. As previously, when we buried Cromwell's faithful manservant, the entire household is present - as are not a few tradesmen, for the Goodwife was well known and respected.

The Priest's words are kindly, and heartfelt, for he is burying a member of his congregation. I know that I am not alone in my sorrow as the coffin is lowered into the grave, and I am also not surprised that Cromwell is as reluctant to leave her as he was William. But then, not only is there that insistent pull of a valued member of his household, but also a dreadfully insistent sense of disquiet - for it was after William's burial that we returned to the Palace only for Cromwell to be arrested that very afternoon. I am thus most grateful that we are presently resident at Grant's Place.

Our walk back to the house is slow, and we say little to one another. It is not the first time that I have felt that I have reached that stage in my life where the giving has ended, and now all is being slowly taken away; and I have no doubt that Cromwell feels much the same. Besides, I was shocked as I stood beside the grave to see just how old he looks these days - the grey at his temples now spread to the point that his entire crown is flecked with silver; the wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead numerous and deep, and there is no escaping the slower, stiffer movements thanks to his ageing joints. I know that he is ten years my senior, and is older than the late King was when he passed away - but nonetheless, to see it laid so bare before me is cruel indeed, and I am no longer surprised that he is intent upon retiring to the House as soon as he is able.

Miss Parsons has ensured that there are victuals awaiting us upon our arrival at the house, and while we partake, we do so minimally, for we have little appetite. I associate the late Goodwife with this place so utterly that I cannot imagine the house without her, and I can see that Cromwell is most saddened by her loss.

As the afternoon draws into evening, those who have spent time with us as guests have departed to their homes, and we are settled in the Library chamber. Cecil has gathered the papers together, and I am almost desperately hopeful that he has found something amongst them that shall allow me some peace from the visions and dreams that trouble me so greatly.

"Now that I know what is meant by the term 'Shadowsight', Richard," Cecil begins, "I have found indications even in the Cardinal's index, for there was a reference to a most obscure document that I struggled for some time to translate, for it was a translation of singular incompetence."

"Show me." I am almost eager to reach out and snatch the paper from him, but instead I permit him to present it. Even I have better manners than to take it.

"It refers to legendary blades, Richard; most of them known to us; such as Colada and Tizona - the swords of Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, and mythical ones, such as Hrunting, that was gifted to Beowulf by Unferth. They were not known to have mystical powers as Shadowsight does, but the writer seems to have assumed that they did - for he refers to a sword known in ancient stories called Tyrfing, which has very similar properties to Shadowsight."

"In what way does it help us?" I ask, a little impatiently, for so far all I have heard is that swords of a mystical fashion exist.

"Forgive me, Richard," Hastily, Cecil scans the document, "It is difficult to interpret, but the document does speak of swords that are bonded to those who wield them - though its reference to Tyrfing is exactly the opposite, in that it would kill whoever used it. None of the weapons mentioned seem to match yours in the state of their bond to the one that wields them - but there is a reference elsewhere which claims to counter that bond."

I am about to comment again, but I pause as Cecil reaches across to another document, words inscribed faintly upon a rather damaged sheet of parchment, "I am relieved to advise that his Eminence discovered it - and it is here." Rather than read it, he hands it to me, and I grasp at it eagerly.

The writing is, as I first noticed, dreadfully faint, and it is hard to make out some of the words, but it is a remarkable item, for the words upon it describe an infusion of various herbs and spices that seem most innocuous, though we have not seen Grains of Paradise in many years, their having been supplanted by black pepper.

"What does the document advise, Richie?" Cromwell asks, quietly.

"It appears to be an infusion of various ingredients that must be imbibed, Thomas: hyssop, grains of paradise, myrtle, cinquefoil and long pepper, all dried, ground up and steeped in white wine."

"Which I have already accumulated." Cecil advises, with a remarkably straight face.

"The infusion is already made?" Cromwell looks most surprised.

"Not completely, Thomas." Cecil admits, "It should be ready by this evening."

"Do you think it shall have any effect?"

"There is no way to tell, I fear; our only recourse is to attempt it. None of the ingredients are toxic, so I am willing to try it as soon as it is ready." I insist. Anything to avoid another ghastly vision or dream.

Cromwell smiles, rather sadly, "Then we shall try it."

* * *

I recall my words, and my enthusiasm, with mild dismay as I am confronted with a basin in which this hoped-for concoction awaits me. It is barely warm, and even at a distance, the reek of it is quite foul, and I know already that the taste shall be appalling.

"How much should I take?" I ask, nervously.

Cecil has, thoughtfully, brought the parchment through to the large chamber in which we are supping, "A pony-glass of the infusion in a gill of small ale."

Shuddering slightly, I pour the required amount into the cup before me, for it contains the appropriate volume of liquid. The combination of the beer and the infusion together is quite revolting, but I have swallowed the Cordial that must follow an application of the sovereign specific; and this is fragrant in comparison. And thus I lift the cup to my lips, and drain it.

At first, I am quite convinced that I have done nothing of any value - but in a short time, I find myself experiencing a strange sense of separation - as though something has been cut from me. To my surprise, I feel a terrible sense of loss; and I am suddenly quite fearful, "Do we know if this effect is permanent?"

Cecil shakes his head, "It is not. The infusion must be drunk daily."

That is, at least, mildly reassuring, but nonetheless, I feel I must be certain that I have not destroyed the bond with my blade, and I nervously extend my hand, " _Lezviye k moyey ruke._ "

For a moment, I am terrified that it shall not hear me, but then I find my hand closing around the hilt, and I am relieved to find that it has heeded my call. It seems, then, that this infusion is indeed efficacious - for my bond with my sword has reverted to that which I have known since it first came to me.

I just hope that I am not deceiving myself - for my sword can prevent most forms of deception, but not that.

* * *

I sleep well, and wake in the morning remarkably refreshed. Despite that awful sense of bereavement, I am hopeful that there shall be no more ghastly disturbances, for I cannot afford to appear mad, or possessed. Not when it is becoming ever clearer that we are facing another encroachment of the demonic kind - just when we thought that all we had to worry about was securing the succession of a child.

We break our fast together upon cold mutton, bread and cheese, while Cecil muses over his discoveries in relation to our other issue - that of the supposed apocalypse.

"It has been most difficult to find anything useful, I fear," He admits, reaching for his cup of small ale, "The general consensus that I have found in the papers is that the Horsemen herald the end of days, and thus must be accepted - for that is God's will."

"And what if a horseman arrives independently?" Cromwell asks, "The prophetic statement in the book of Revelations is most clear that the man on the red horse is the second to emerge; and we have not received any indication that the first has arrived."

"The document that I have uncovered, however," Cecil resumes, "refers to another manuscript; one of such reputation that the only copy thereof is reputedly locked away in the deepest of the Papal Archives - for the Cardinals that swarm the Lateran Palace in hopes of ingratiating themselves sufficiently to become Pope fear it."

"Why would they do so?" Cromwell asks, intrigued at the thought of something that could frighten catholic officials to such an extent, "What does it contain?"

"It is impossible to know - but it is said that it refers to more detailed prophecies of the latter years of the world, and suggests that the authority of Rome shall be toppled. Whether that be true, or no, the document does not reveal - but I think it unlikely. A more reasonable suggestion is that it discusses the Revelation of John in terms that are not in accordance with the text of the Holy Bible."

"Given that it is not universally accepted as a prophetic work, that is quite possible." Cromwell agrees, "Certainly Martin Luther did not think it to be so - though the Catholic Church largely accepts it." His tone suggests that the Catholic Church would accept anything, and I cannot quell a smile, for his prejudices are showing again.

"But - if it is not universally accepted as a prophetic work, why was I shown visions of a man on a red horse? And one who all but identified himself as 'war'? Might he not be the prophesied horseman at all?" and then I am struck by a thought, "Have you considered our copy of the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_?"

"I had not thought to." Cecil admits, rather abashed, "For I was working to the assumption that our horseman was of prophetic origin."

Abandoning the victuals, we make our way down into the Library. I have not yet had the opportunity to explore this remarkable work, for, unlike most of the items in our collection, it has been published only recently by a demonologist from the Low Countries - though he claims to have used a source far older. Alongside it is the work to which it is an appendix, _De Praestigiis Daemonum_ , and the two are remarkably interesting, as they list the hierarchy of demons in the infernal realms. While not entirely complete - for who can list every demon that has ever existed? It has great potential to be of use to those of us who fight them.

That said - it does not make pleasant reading, but we eventually settle upon a likely candidate.

"There," I point at the entry, "Eligos - a Grand Duke in Hell, commanding sixty legions. He knows the future outcomes of war, sees hidden things, and rides a steed of equally infernal origin, the Steed of Abigor. He appears in the form of an armoured knight."

"So - rather than the horseman of War being released, it would appear that we have instead discovered the victor in the battles to claim England as a demonic stronghold." Cromwell sighs.

"And so, as prophesied, a great conflict has opened the way for a man upon a horse." Cecil muses, "I shall set to work on finding what I can to combat him."

"No - _we_ shall set to work." I remind him, "I have not been present in this place even half as much as I should - and it is essential that I re-acquaint myself with it."

Besides, I should like to gain Wolsey's advice. So far, he has not intervened - but then, as this discovery was made in a book that had not even been written at the time that he lived, what advice could he have given? I have never come across the predecessor - apparently called _Liber officiorum spirituum_ , which is, perhaps, the book that is purportedly locked away in the Papal archive. Though why any should fear it, God only knows. Such is the allure of the hidden, I suppose.

Exploration of the Library is our expertise as Second and apprentice, so Cromwell retreats upstairs as we work. I find Cecil to be a remarkably intelligent man, and also very likeable, as his mind works in much the same way as mine does - albeit far more quickly. By the time Cromwell returns downstairs to alert us that it is nearly midday, and dinner shall be served shortly, we have accumulated a surprisingly large number of documents which may - or may not - be of use.

After we have dined, we return to the main chamber and divide the parchments between us, as they are mostly in Latin, other than two in Greek, and one in Hebrew, which I can - more or less - decipher, though I am dreadfully out of practice. Other than this, there is one that seems to be in a form of language that we cannot understand at all well, so it shall be left until last. And so we embark upon a long afternoon of quiet perusal. As we used to do when Wyatt was present, we examine each document individually; that which looks likely to warrant further reading is set into the middle of our circle, though that is now a table, rather than the floor, while those which are not are set aside.

After an hour, we have reduced the selection considerably, and work together rather than individually, taking each piece in turn. As I surmised, most are of no use other than to confirm that which we already knew - though one paper suggests that the manifestation of Eligos inspires immense violence in those who are present when he does so, while another states that he works most effectively through consorting with the high-born. That would certainly explain Northumberland's involvement.

At length, we have discovered little of use, and are left with just the document that we cannot decipher - or, at least, neither Cecil nor I can understand it, so Cromwell sits with it awhile, before he nods, "I think I have it."

"What is it?" I ask, "It seems almost to be French, and yet it is not."

"It is Picard," he answers, "A language spoken in the northernmost corner of France, where it meets the border of Flanders. I learned a little of it from a trader while I was at the house of Frescobaldi. It amused him that I had an ear for languages."

"Can you understand it?"

"Not enough to be of any use, I fear. I shall have to obtain a translation - though that should not be difficult, for I know of a Picard at Court: Francis Langlès. He was brought up in Péronne, and is part of Marillac's entourage - and I rather amused him when I attempted to speak to him in the dialect of his home. Despite being in the French delegation, he is of a Lutheran bent and is thus unlikely to be dismayed should this document speak of matters that might dismay one of a more Catholic frame of mind."

"Will he be at Nonsuch?" I am aware that we shall need to depart there before a translation is ready.

"No, but Marillac shall certainly seek accommodation either in the borough of Cheam or in the vicinity of Ewell in order to be present at Court without needing to travel excessively, so Langlès shall be nearby."

* * *

Naturally, now that I must wait for an explanation, I am in a fever of anticipation - patience has never been my strongest suit, and my mind is racing with possibilities as I ready myself for bed.

 _Oh, for God's sake, Rich. It shall be ready when it is ready._

"Are we correct in our assessment, Eminence?" I am eager for even the slightest degree of confirmation.

 _All I can tell you is that the battles in the infernal realms are indeed at an end - but the identity of the victor has not been shown to me. That, alas, is for you to discover._

Not exactly what I was hoping for - but he cannot tell me that which he does not know. In which case, Cromwell and I shall commence our journey to Nonsuch tomorrow, and see what Langlès can discover.

* * *

I have been imbibing the infusion for three days now, and already I am tired of it - though I am relieved to find that I am still unaffected by the more unpleasant elements of my connection to my sword, so I am willing to endure the vile brew as long as I can do so before I break my fast, and thus obliterate the taste with whatever victuals are served.

With no further information to be gleaned from the library, Cromwell has decided that we shall depart for Nonsuch this morning. As it is further away than Hampton Court, we shall be on the road for most of the day and travelling an unfamiliar route; so Paget, who has been there, has agreed to meet us at London Bridge and we shall ride there together. As he knows of us, we shall not be obliged to remain silent about the matter that is hanging over our heads.

He was not present when we discussed the threat with the Regent and Somerset, but at least we are able to apprise him of a less disastrous situation; for we thought at that time that we were facing the beginning of the end times. It now appears that we are not - or perhaps this is the identity of the horseman that was revealed to John in his prophecies. It is impossible to know for sure.

As promised, Paget is awaiting us in a small tavern close to the bridge, "Your manservant asked me to advise you both that he has overseen the transfer of your possessions to Nonsuch, my Lords." He advises, "Their Majesties shall depart there at the end of the week, and Mr Wriothesley has already transferred the required office functions, so they shall be operating by the time we arrive."

"I shall believe that when I see it." Cromwell smiles, as Paget mounts his horse.

The bridge is busy today, and our progress is tiresomely slow. The volume of traffic is frequently such that crossing the bridge can take an hour or more; and today looks to be such a day. Matters are made worse by the general reek of refuse and sewage from the nightsoil pots that are blithely emptied out of windows from the houses and businesses above the roadway. People are arguing, cursing, chattering and squabbling amongst themselves; perhaps out of annoyance, but mostly for something to do, I suppose.

By the time we emerge, the sun is high, and we are largely free of crowds as we pass beyond Southwark and make our way southwards into open countryside. With no one to overhear us, Cromwell takes the time to apprise Paget of our discoveries; both the initial assessment, and our latest interpretation.

"And you think the name of this demon to be Eligos?" Paget asks, remarkably unfazed by our subject of discussion, "A remarkable name, to be sure. What do you know of him?"

"Alas, not much, Mr Paget," Cromwell admits, "Merely that which was revealed by Mr Weyer's admirable _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_. We are hopeful that one remaining document shall grant us more useful data - but that is written in the Picard language, and thus we must rely upon one who speaks that language in order to progress in our investigation."

"Is it possible that this Eligos might _be_ the referred to Horseman of War?" Paget ventures.

"I was wondering that, myself," I admit, "for prophesies are notoriously fickle things, are they not? They speak sparingly, and leave much open to interpretation."

"I trust that the additional document might reveal a means of repelling this Eligos?"

"That is our hope."

Our conversation moves on to more trivial matters as we continue through a mixture of fields and woodland that is a real pleasure to traverse. The woods are alive with birdsong, and the winged choristers flit from tree to tree as we pass by, the horses moving at a gentle plod. It might be a long ride, but it is without doubt most beautiful.

We pause to dine at a wayside inn that Paget promises is not too offensive; and I am most relieved to find that he is right, for I am hungry - and I most certainly do not wish to endure another bout of the awful poisoning that struck me down upon my return to Greenwich from Felsted.

Never having seen the palace, except in the form of sketches that I presumed to be ridiculous fantasies when Cromwell presented them to me years ago, I am fascinated to see how well the architects rendered those frantic scrawls. How long ago was it? Edward had just been born, and Queen Jane had survived - but I think I was so taken up with my frantic fretting over the location of Red Fire that it it quite slipped my mind at the time once I had set one of the Clerks to work upon identifying the funds to begin paying for it. Even signing the documents that released the funds has disappeared from my memory now; and I am struck by how entirely my search for that jewel consumed me.

As we are a approaching from the north, the frontage seems quite conventional, as is the overall plan of the building; but the real glory lies along the southern range, where two great octagonal towers stand at either end, flaring out to wide halls crowned with cupolas that are almost bristling with finely wrought finials that rise from every joint, a profusion of pennants fluttering gaily in the spring breeze. The whole is surrounded by gardens, and looks quite wonderfully idyllic - though it is rather odd to be so far away from the river. I suspect that, while the King may not be particularly interested in the place, the Regent shall find it quite perfect.

Evening is drawing in as we clatter through the great North Gatehouse into the Base Court, where I find that John and James have arranged for the Grooms to take our horses out to the Mews. Before us, a flight of stairs rise to a middle gateway over which rises the Clock tower, and Paget leads us through to the central range, where I am relieved to find that John is waiting to guide me to my new apartments. I anticipate several days of getting hopelessly lost in these corridors, but - as Cromwell is no more familiar with this palace than I, at least it is a difficulty that I shall not experience alone.

The quarters assigned to me are very fine - a large main chamber with wide windows that offer a view across a well tended parterre garden, and a goodly sized bedchamber with an excellent tester bed that I am most grateful to find, for I am very tired after a long day in the saddle. I am sure that Cromwell's apartments shall be finer than mine, but as these are the finest I have been granted at any time in my Court service, I have no complaints.

As the Regent and the King have not yet arrived, we have the opportunity to sup in Cromwell's quarters, and I am not surprised at all to find that I was right. He has, I note, been busy while I was exploring my apartments, "I was correct in my assumption, Richie; Langlès is already installed in a small manor just to the east of Ewell, and I have arranged to visit him on the morrow with the document. He is expecting us both."

* * *

While the rest of the Court has not yet arrived in large numbers, Marillac has secured accommodation at a rather old-fashioned place called Cuddington Lea, a large manor house named for the small hamlet that once existed here, before it was entirely demolished to make way for the larger of the two parks at Nonsuch. Naturally he is not yet in residence, but it seems that some of his staff have been sent here to prepare the place for his arrival, and Langlès, a tall, thin man with lank brown hair and a remarkably long nose, has been placed in charge of the work.

"Ah, _mon Seigneur_ , welcome to our charming little ruin!" he enthuses, cheerfully, "What is this remarkable document that you have brought for me to see?"

"I wish I could tell you, M. Langlès; but alas, I cannot decipher it, for it is in a most outlandish language." There is a twinkle in Cromwell's eye that I have not seen in a long while.

"That is because you do not speak a civilised tongue, M. Cromwell," Langlès laughs at him, "Come, I shall call for some wine and we shall examine your strange document."

The claret that we are given is excellent - far better than the quality of our surroundings - and Langlès is soon absorbed in the document.

"It is not very long, M. Cromwell," he advises, "It speaks of the pilgrim Arculf and his journey to the Holy land, where he was shown a chalice that was most revered by all who came to see it - and he was privileged to touch it. When Jerusalem fell, the chalice could not be found; until it was discovered that it had somehow been obtained in years past by Saint Edward of England, of blessed memory. There, it became his communion cup."

"Does the document mention anything special about the chalice?" Cromwell asks, intrigued.

Langlès reads awhile, frowning, "It is hard to read this later writing, for the ink is not so well mixed; but it states that this chalice is the means to repel war, famine and pestilence - but not death, for none can evade the rider of the Pale Horse." He looks up, "If you give me a day, I can place a proper translation in your hands. Is this document of importance?"

"No; I had commissioned workmen to renovate the wine cellar at Austin Friars, and they found it in a wall. I was curious as to what it might say. Perhaps it might have led to some hidden treasure."

"As though you need more money." The Picard laughs, though I note that Cromwell is looking rather concerned.

"I think that I have erred, Richie." He says, as we ride back to the Palace, "God, I have truly erred."

"In what way?"

"Did you not hear what Langlès told us? The means to defeat Eligos is the Chalice of Jerusalem - that which was seen by the pilgrim Arculf and was then used by Edward the Confessor for his communion wine."

"I do not see the significance - all we need to do is secure the cup."

He groans then, "But we cannot."

I stare at him, "How? Does it not exist?"

"The chalice, along with numerous other items of value to the Confessor, were placed in his tomb - and then translated to his shrine in the former Abbey."

And now I begin to understand, "The Abbey that was dissolved - the shrine that was dismantled…"

"The relics within were dispersed - and I cannot say with any certainty that they were not melted down."

"We cannot be sure of that."

"And we cannot be sure that they survive." He looks helpless, "Dear God, I was so intent upon my work to reform the Church, and to secure the monies released by the closure of the Monastic Houses that I never thought for a moment that there might be greater consequences than the ending of the corruption of the Clergy…"

"You could not have foreseen this, Thomas."

"I am a Silver Sword, Richie - it is my duty to consider all that might occur as a result of my actions. I have been a fool, a _damnable_ fool. In my determination to secure the reform of the Church, I might have doomed us all to death and worse. God, what on earth have I done?"

I cannot offer any words of consolation, for what can I say? I am as culpable as he, for while he was at the forefront, I was at his side. In finding the means to defeat Eligos, we have discovered that - inadvertently - our own acts have destroyed it.

And with it, our only hope of avoiding the end of the world.

* * *

 **And, on that cliffhanger, A/N the Second:** I haven't sent the Court to Nonsuch yet - which is rather remiss of me as it was supposedly the finest of all of Henry's palaces. Unfortunately, it's gone now; so gone, in fact, that we only know where it was thanks to ground markings from the air, and some archaeological work at the beginning of the 20th Century.

Some of the enormous park remains, however, and I used to play there occasionally as a child. There's a Victorian mock-Tudor mansion still there - though it's not in the place where the palace was - but Nonsuch, for me, conjures up dusty memories of hazy summer afternoons playing ball games, visiting the large aviaries that used to be there, and seeing the exotic birds they used to keep. That was, admittedly, in the 1970s (yes, I really am that old), so they probably don't have the birds anymore.

That said, there is no house called Cuddington Lea - I made that bit up - but Cheam and Ewell (which is actually pronounced 'you-wull') certainly do.

The publication _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ ( _The Hierarchy of Demons_ ) really exists as an appendix to _De Praestigiis Daemonum_ , ( _On the Tricks of Demons_ ), and you can still read it online if you want a laugh at how credulous we once were - or you can buy it on Amazon (I'm not making this up, you know). Eligos is taken from the list of 69 demons in the hierarchy - he's number 12. The only thing that isn't correct is the publication date - I've got the book available in the 1540s, when in fact it came out in around 1563.

The most intriguing thing about the author, Johann Weyer, was that - despite producing these books - he was a critic of the emerging 'First Great European Witch Freakout', which only really began to gather steam in the last years of the 16th Century, before it completely went bananas in the 17th. Unlike most, he suggested that those who claimed to be witches were mentally ill in some way - and not _actually_ witches. Ironically, before that period, 'witchcraft' wasn't even a crime...


	21. The Forthright Spy

**A/N:** Thanks for your reviews, Blurgle and Ally - I really appreciate your comments. It is indeed a pity that we lost the entire Crown regalia, and what wasn't melted down was sold off (wah!). The current regalia is, however, spectacular, and there's a carefully created replica of Henry's crown in the Chapel Royal at Hampton Court, too. If we can't have the originals, then we have the replacements - though retired crowns are also on display in the Tower, and they look really weird without their gems!

And, of course, there is something here that they can't afford to have been melted down: but can they find it? Read on to find out...

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

 _The Forthright Spy_

The Regent looks at me, rather bemused, "He has not emerged from his quarters since you returned?"

I shake my head, "His Grace has often felt great guilt over matters that were not his fault - but this time, he cannot escape that it was his determination to carry out his late Majesty's will in the reform of the Church that has led to our dilemma."

Cromwell has remained in his apartments for the last two days, and will not even answer me when I knock upon his door. He has not been so removed from us since Wyatt was abducted - and I have no wish to be stabbed again in order to rouse him from it.

"I shall return to Whitehall, Majesty." I advise, "I was involved in the preparatory work to dissolve the Abbey at Westminster, and thus I have retained records pertaining to who undertook the closure and what was done while there. We required our commissioners to report thoroughly to ensure that no monies due to the King's coffers were…misappropriated."

She smiles, "Of course."

"I cannot say whether the chalice shall have been recorded - but if I can speak to the commissioners who were present, they may be able to advise me as to its fate."

"Indeed," the Queen agrees, "It seems foolish to mourn the loss of an item which may not yet be lost." She looks at me then, "It could be claimed that you are equally culpable, my Lord; and yet you are not overwhelmed and shut away in your rooms."

"There is something that I can do, Majesty. When I was felled by the strain of the absence of Red Fire, the cause was my absolute helplessness. I needed it - it was all that was required of me; and yet I could not find it. Perhaps, if my search proves fruitless, then I, too, shall retreat to my quarters and brood."

"This is most unlike his Grace…" she sighs.

"Not entirely," I admit, "while I was involved in the process, the entire enterprise was carried out in response to his work to provide the King with evidence that the religious houses were manifestly corrupt and must be closed. His actions were prompted to at least some extent by a degree of personal prejudice, and now he feels that he has acted in a manner that is utterly contrary to the entire purpose of his mission."

"Then go, my Lord Rich," she says, firmly, "Return to Whitehall as swiftly as you may. If you require a detachment of guards to accompany you, then pick whom you will to do so."

I shake my head, "I suspect that I shall do little more than draw attention to myself. I shall dress roughly and ensure that I am well armed. If fortune favours us, my return shall accompany the arrival of the translation of the document that we found. Langlès's description was simple and brief, and there is hope that there shall be more information for us to discover."

She nods, and I depart.

Before I return to my apartments and ask John to arrange with the mews for Urban to be made ready, I visit Cromwell's apartments yet again. I have been here four times in the last two days, and still he will not admit me - or any other, for that matter. God, I thought he had overcome this…but it seems not. Through his determination to serve the King's will, he has put us all in the gravest of peril - so now he sits and despairs at his foolishness. But how could anyone have seen this? Even though he has always taken care not to act until he as thought each plan through to its end, it could hardly have been possible to know that the dissolution of one religious house out of hundreds could deprive us of a vital element that we require to battle a demon of which we knew nothing until barely a week ago.

James opens the door in answer to my knock, "Ah, my Lord. Forgive me, but his Grace is still in seclusion."

"I appreciate that, John. Thank you; could you advise him that I intend to depart to Whitehall to seek out our records of the closure of Westminster, please? It may be that the commissioners shall recall what happened to the item that we are seeking."

He nods, "I shall inform him."

Perhaps I am hopeful that the news shall inspire Cromwell to emerge, but it seems not. He has not arrived at my door by the time I have changed into entirely rougher garments, and taken care to arm myself with not only my sword, but also the two poniards and even two pistols - though they are empty, for I have never been able to gain any skill with a ranged weapon. I just hope that I shall not be obliged to use them.

Urban is waiting, saddled and ready for me, as I emerge into the Base Court, and I am soon in the saddle and on my way. I suspect that I shall meet not a few members of the Court travelling in the opposite direction, for most are still in the process of making the journey. The King and Regent arrived only yesterday; and she has arrived to find Cromwell has shut himself in his apartments, and I have left to return to London. A fine start indeed to our stay at Nonsuch.

The road is quiet, and the sun warm as Urban plods along at a sensible pace. I have never travelled such a distance alone before; but, for the first time, I find that I enjoy the solitude and I am not afraid of being waylaid by bandits for I can protect myself. There was a time when I would once have been deeply uncomfortable at the prospect of being without the protection of either a group of people, or guards - but instead I feel a sense of surprising peace. Before long, I am whistling a folk tune that I recall my mother singing to me when I was a child, and Urban picks up his pace slightly in response.

I stop at the same inn that Paget recommended on the way south, and make a light meal of some beef and bread before resuming my journey. Thanks to the presence of the Palace, the path is well marked now, and certainly well trodden thanks to the large numbers of baggage carts that have come this way over the last week or so. Now and again, as I expected, small parties of Courtiers and their immediate servants pass me and pay me no mind, for I am not in my finest court dress, and I have pulled my bonnet quite low over my face to conceal my identity.

As my intended destination is Whitehall, I eschew London Bridge, and instead make use of one of the many barges that ferry passengers across the river upstream of that crammed thoroughfare. Thus I arrive in the Deal Yard as the shadows are lengthening, and surprise one of the stewards overseeing the place with my arrival, for the apartments normally assigned to me are unprepared, and I have travelled light, with only a small saddlebag. As I have plenty of suitable garments at my rarely-visited London residence, it is a simple matter to send a message there for spare clothing, and I have no qualms about seeking a meal alongside those of far lower estate who remain in the Palaces to maintain them when the Court is not present. I am no longer conscious of class differences - not since I discovered a woman of extraordinary intelligence working as a pot washer.

A burly guard seats himself alongside me with a heavy grunt, then turns to me, "Not seen you 'round 'ere before."

As we are not in the great hall, but instead in one of the large halls where the servants are given their meals, that is certainly correct, "Not been 'ere before." I respond, drawing upon my Hampshire roots to hide the rather more refined accent that I have honed at both Cambridge and the Middle Temple.

"Where you from?" he asks, interested, "Name's Martin. Martin Meekes; been 'ere longer'n I can recall. Served the old King, these ten years."

"Dickon Empshott," I lie, snatching a surname from a village in Hampshire that I recall from my youth. I might be London born, but my family is Country Gentry in origin, "From Hampshire. Arrived a few days back, I'm to work in the offices for the Lord Privy Seal." Oh God - why did I say that? I am hardly popular, and now I have given a complete stranger the opportunity to tell me what a dreadful man I am.

Meekes snorts with amusement, "Fallen on your feet you 'ave, then. If you play it right, you'll do well. Got the ear of the Regent and the King, 'e 'as."

I do not need to ask any further questions, for I seem to have unstopped a dam and released a torrent of discourse. To my surprise, however, it seems that, to those who do not move in political circles, I am viewed as something of a mystery - for there are rumours that I am some sort of agent or spy. Damn - it seems that our hunts have not been quite as unnoticed as I had thought; though - oddly - they seem not to have recognised Cromwell as the companion that I have.

"Have yer ever met 'I'm?" I ask, pretending to be agog with fascination.

"No, not I. Never even seen 'im. S'what others've said, y'see."

Thank God for that. Fortunately, others arrive at the table, and the conversation moves on to other matters that are clearly shared by the group who have joined us - and I am swiftly forgotten. Excusing myself, I make my way back up to the corridors of the Palace more suited to a man of my social station, and I am pleased to find that a set of rooms - though not my usual quarters - have been hastily prepared for me, while some clothing more suitable for the Lord Privy Seal has been delivered from St Bartholomew's. I am exhausted, and grateful to flop into bed - my researching can wait until tomorrow.

* * *

I am served victuals in my rooms this morning, rather than visiting the servant's hall again. The Clerks already know that I am present, and I am sure that they are wondering what I am doing here. As I merely wish to visit the extensive archives, they need not fear - unless they have been particularly lax - and I am unlikely to see them, for the papers I require are held elsewhere in the enormous building.

Thanks to the carefully organised indexing system, devised by Wolsey and extended to great effect by Cromwell, it takes me no more than two hours to lay my hands upon the papers I require, and I withdraw to my chambers with them. The papers are comprehensive, for they were compiled by John Prise, an astute and thorough Welshman of great intelligence who travelled through a similar education to mine - albeit an Oxford man. I note, to my dismay, that Thomas Legh was also involved; and of all the commissioners that Cromwell selected, he was by far the most acquisitive - I can recall his having to be censured at least twice for his behaviour. Even Prise was shocked, and he is - if I recall - no more well disposed to the religious houses than Legh was. God help us if Legh took it - it could be anywhere by now.

Rather than fret prematurely, I instead set out the papers and read through them. Thanks to its proximity to Royalty, the Abbey was well endowed with riches - most of which would have been granted straight back to the King. My particular concern, however, is the descriptions of the Shrine and what it contained. This I find upon the seventh page, marked, fortunately, in Prise's impeccable hand.

 _Item: Lead Coffin containing bones of the Confessor, enclosed in wood coffin inlaid with gold and ivory._

 _Item: Gold Salver for communion bread_

 _Item: Gold and amber Rosary with crucifix made of wood claimed to be the True Cross_

 _Item: Remains of silken maniple embroidered with gold thread. Possibly crimson._

 _Item: Communion chalice, plain hammered silver of ancient aspect without foot. Dented but not tarnished._

I almost drop the paper, for that is it - it must be. What else could it be? I shall need to find some reference to whatever chalice Arculf discovered in Jerusalem to be sure that it was silver as this one is. Now that I have it, I quickly scan through the document for a note on what was done with the items, and groan in annoyance - for their destination is not referred to as anything other than 'to be delivered unto the King for his disposal.'

Damnation. Now I shall have to speak to Prise. I hope to God that he's in London - if not, then he shall likely be in either Carmarthen or Brecon, for he has the Rectory in one, and the Priory in the other. I have no wish to wait for a letter to reach him, and for him to either travel all the way from Wales, or for him to write an answer and leave me helpless with questions that he is not present to answer.

To my relief, the Clerk in charge of the offices in Wriothesley's absence is Peter, and I pull him aside, "Can you ascertain whether Sir John Prise is in London, Peter? I need to speak to him on a matter of some urgency, and I do not have time to hunt for him if he is in Wales."

"I shall make enquiries, my Lord," he assures me, and I am once more at a loose end.

Fortune is, it seems, on my side; for not only is Sir John in London, he is staying at a large town house on the Strand, for he has business at the Middle Temple. I have not spoken to him in some time, but he seems quite pleased to have heard from me, and consents to visit this afternoon, as he has no other engagements.

"Ah, my Lord!" he seems most ebullient - I had quite forgotten that, "It's good to see you again! Are you well?"

"I am most well, Sir John. Please - be seated." I offer sack, which he accepts, and we settle beside the small fire that is all that we need in the late spring warmth, "Forgive my interrupting your business in London; I trust it is not too inconvenient?"

"Not at all, my Lord, not at all. I was visiting Mr Whitchurch, who has printed my book - for I am most keen to ensure that ordinary folk are granted access to that most pleasant garden of faith - and in it are instructions covering the alphabet, how to read words and how to count, so that all men can meet God through his word, rather than at the dogmatic instruction of a priest." He looks very excited, "No book has ever been printed in my own language before, my Lord - this shall be the first; its title is rather long, I fear, but I have called it, for convenience, _Yn y Llyfr Hwn_ \- though that merely means 'in this book'…"

Ah, I had also forgotten how garrulous he can be, "Forgive me, Sir John - much as I am delighted in your tidings, for I agree that men should be granted the opportunity to speak to God themselves, I must ask you to aid me with your remembrance of the works undertaken at the former abbey of Westminster."

"Westminster?" He asks, intrigued, "That was an unusual visit for me - I am usually engaged in my own land; but my Lord Cromwell wanted to be sure that Mr Legh was accompanied. How can I aid you?"

"Your inventory of the items held in the Shrine of the Confessor. Can you advise me as to what happened to them?"

He sits awhile, clearly thinking very hard, but eventually he speaks, "Hmm…the body, of course, was interred in consecrated ground outside the Abbey. There was a Salver, a Rosary, a maniple that was so utterly rotten that I think it was thrown on a bonfire with the rood, and a silver chalice - now that was something remarkable. It was called a chalice merely because it was used for communion wine, I think - for it had no foot as such a vessel would normally possess. We set the Salver aside, for it was gold; but there was little use for the rosary or the chalice, so they were set aside for disposal."

I struggle with myself not to groan aloud.

"I say that they were set aside," he sighs, "but when Legh's men went to fetch them, they were gone. I suspect one of the displaced monks probably snatched them; though we never found who it was."

"So they might still exist?"

"I'd be surprised if they didn't, my Lord. Those papists are so wedded to such relics - naught but idolatry in my view. The Salver ended up in the Chapel Royal, I think - but we never saw the rosary or the chalice again."

* * *

My supper that night is one of half dismay, half triumph; for while I know that the Chalice is lost - it is likely that it has not been destroyed. If it exists, then we can find it…

I am startled as the door to my chamber bursts open, "Forgive me, Richie. I am sorry - when I discovered you had returned to Whitehall, I realised what you had decided to do and followed." Cromwell has emerged from his despondency, thank God.

"Then I have news that is more good than bad, Thomas," I advise, fetching a chair and setting it at the table. I do not have a spare plate, but the serving plate has only a little left, and that shall do as a portion, so I offer that.

"Tell me." Already Cromwell has his knife out and is carving at what remains of the mutton, "I can see from your face that there is cause for hope."

"My records identified that John Prise was set to work at the Abbey to oversee the actions of Thomas Legh; and I interviewed him this afternoon. The chalice was recovered from the Shrine, but was set aside to be disposed of - from where it was snatched; probably by one of the monks. While Prise cannot say now where it might be, it is likely that it was rescued from destruction and even now exists somewhere in secret. Thus we can seek it out."

"How do you intend to do that?" He asks, intently.

"I suspect that I have as much chance of finding it as I have of flying to the moon, so I shall set one of the Spies to work upon it."

"A good plan. Do you have anyone specific in mind?"

"Yes, I do."

* * *

The task that we are facing is, I fear, a rather difficult one - and one that I have not had to consider since I was obliged to sit helplessly while I awaited the discovery of Red Fire by those who had been set to find it. At least then, the ruby had been all but sent to us, thanks to the wish of the late Duke of Suffolk to provide a worthwhile gift to his King. Now, however, we are obliged to seek a silver cup that could be anywhere, for if the monks have parted with it, or lost it, then who would know its value?

In order to seek it out, I need someone who is tenacious, determined and intelligent - and I can think of one spy in particular who could be of great use to us. I am grateful now that responsibility for the Spies in England was deputed to me, as it would be a harder task to convince the master of the Spies back in Milan of my choice; for he is - and has always been - quite convinced that the best men for the work are exactly that: men.

Like many of the spies in England, the candidate I have in mind was aided by the order some time ago, to the point of being alive instead of executed in the foolish struggles between those who wanted reform in the Church, and those who wish to maintain the status quo - for whatever reason. Most would pay this spy no mind, for who would think a woman capable of such subterfuge?

This woman, however, is well read, remarkably intelligent and largely self-taught; though her predilection for speaking her mind has proved at times to be troublesome, and indeed was the reason for the assistance of the Order - as she is very much a reformer, and quite a determined one, too. Now, however, she puts her energies into seeking out information for the House, and very good she is at it, too; if the reports I receive are to be believed, for I have never met Anne Askew.

I issue a summons to her via Baxter, as he is planted at Court largely as a liaison between myself and the spies, asking her to come to Grant's Place on the morrow, and then dispatch a message to Cecil, warning him that we shall need to use a chamber in absolute privacy. As he remains an apprentice Second, there are some aspects of active service to which he is yet to be introduced. As only serving members of the Order, other than myself, generally interact with the Spies, it is best that he remain ignorant for the time being. My involvement is purely by virtue of the respect in which I am held.

Cromwell is in a decidedly better mood this morning, and we take a walk together in the Privy Garden as the sun climbs towards its zenith. I have no doubt that there is plenty of work that we could be doing; but, as we are not here on Court business, I am quite content to enjoy the respite, and allow the Clerks to continue as they would have done were we still at Nonsuch.

"I must ask you to forgive my stupid behaviour while we were in Surrey, Richie." He sighs, a little embarrassed, "I thought myself to be beyond such foolishness."

"It was understandable, Thomas;" I reply, "at first it seemed as though we had doomed ourselves and all around us in our determination to carry out the will of the King."

"Perhaps," he agrees, "But nonetheless, the speed and efficiency of our work was very much my responsibility. Had the chalice been melted down, then there would be no means of repelling Eligos should he choose to manifest."

"Assuming that he does so." I admit, "I am, as yet, unaware of how he might do such a thing. Does he need to be present? Must he be summoned? I have not the first idea."

"Perhaps he has made a bargain with Northumberland." Cromwell suggests, not entirely seriously, "Given his determination to seize some power for himself, it is not particularly implausible - and if we lack the means to repel Eligos, then who can stop him?"

Then, while Madame Askew is busy seeking out the chalice, Thomas, Cecil and I shall devote time to finding out how we use it once it is found."

"You seem remarkably confident that it shall be discovered." Cromwell smiles at me.

"From what I am told of Madame Askew, she has the tenacity of a terrier and a determination that is quite unmatched by any other in our ranks. If she cannot track it down, then no one can. I have no idea what circles she moves in, but they are plentiful, I believe. Most do not think her to be anything other than an uneducated housewife, so she is able to extract large amounts of information by being wide eyed and credulous."

"If that is so, then I imagine she must despise such a tactic. I have never found an educated woman who revels in appearing unintelligent."

We travel to Grant's Place as the day is drawing over towards evening. We have not bothered with the finer clothes that our ranks demand, instead being in the rougher garments that we tend to use exclusively for hunting. Given that there has not been a large population at Nonsuch before, I suspect that no ravener shall be seen there for several weeks yet, so we have ample time to meet with Madame Askew, and revisit the library in hopes of finding more information about the chalice - assuming that we find it.

As we were not expected at the house, our supper is rather meagre, for Miss Parsons and her household tend to sup upon pottage when we are not in residence. It is, however hot and filling, and we are soon talking to Cecil about our next moves.

"I have no doubt that we shall be able to find information concerning the origin of the chalice, Richard." Cecil advises, "Though whether it shall be possible to ascertain what is to be done with it once we have it, I could not hope to guess at this point."

"It would be interesting to know where the chalice came from, how it reached Jerusalem, and how it travelled on from there." Cromwell muses, "If we know its origin, then it may be that we can extrapolate some ideas over its use from that. It may be that it was made with a purpose in mind, and if that is so, then sometimes the information we require is provided as a consequence."

"As was the case with my sword." I offer, reaching for my cup to take another sip of claret - though it is a rather poor vintage and I almost immediately regret it.

"In which case," Cecil offers, "While you are engaged with the agent from the House, I shall set to work in the Library to see what it holds. No new papers have arrived recently, but given the amount of data to be searched, it is possible that we shall find what we need amongst that which we already have."

"If it proves not to be so," I add, "Then I shall write to the Master Archivist at Milan in hopes that their collection might have something. It is the only archive of which I am aware, other than the Papal Archive, that is as extensive as ours."

 _No it is not_. Wolsey snorts, dismissively, and I almost choke on my wine.

* * *

Anne Askew turns out to be a woman of medium height and light build, dressed simply but elegantly in black, and has the look of a well-to-do burgher's wife. Her accent proclaims her to be of Lincolnshire stock, and it is clear from the first moment that she will brook no nonsense from any - man or woman.

Her curtsey to Cromwell is, however, deep and respectful, for all who serve the Order, in whatever capacity, know of his fame, "Raven."

He bows deeply in return, "Quaesitor."

She turns then to me, "My Lord."

I am slightly startled at this, for most involved with the Order call me 'Mr Rich' as they consider my name to be more important than my Court rank. As Seconds do not have a formal name - such as the sigils borne by the Silver Swords, or 'Quaesitor' which means 'seeker' for the Spies - we tend to be known by our Family names, regardless of the ranks we might hold. It seems that, despite her reputation for blunt speaking, she also regards me with great respect.

"Madame." I bow in return, then pull a chair back for her to seat herself.

"What is it that you ask of me?" Is her first question, for she knows we would not summon her if there was no mission for her to undertake.

"Your reputation is peerless in terms of finding things that are lost, Madame." I begin, "Thus that is what we require of you."

"Go on." She prompts.

"You may recall that the Abbey of Westminster was closed a few years ago, and the shrine of the Confessor emptied."

"And a good thing, too." she mutters, "Damned idolatry." Then she looks up to see my shock at her language, "Sorry."

To her right, Cromwell smirks with amusement.

"One of the items removed from the shrine," I continue, having paused to collect myself after the shock of her intemperate language, "was a silver chalice that was remarkable for its age and state, for it had been formed from hammered silver; and, but for a small dent, was remarkably untarnished. It was set aside at the time with the intention of melting it down to recover the silver, but was instead taken. We suspect that it was snatched by one of the displaced monks - but what might have happened to it since, no one can say."

"Well, that is indeed most careless." She says, rolling her eyes, "Just like men to misplace something of value. No sense of the worth of things - never trust a man with valuables. And that is what you want me to find?"

"Er…yes." I find the wind quite taken out of my sails, and I notice Cromwell's hand rising to conceal the growing amusement made visible by his twitching lips.

She sits back, obviously thinking quite hard, "Hm…well, I know that the monks that left the Abbey mostly went into the community and took the pension - though one or two went to France. If any of them had the chalice, it's a safe bet that it's either hidden in a house somewhere, or it's been sold."

"Sold?" Cromwell asks, intrigued.

"That pension only goes so far. Have you any idea what rents are like for those who aren't up to their necks in gold? I'd wager a year's pay that it'll have been pawned by now. Monks' principles tend to lessen when they get tired of being hungry." She pauses, and looks at each of us, "You do realise that it might not be in England anymore - or even a cup? Silver's worth more in ingots."

"Principles or no, Quaesitor, given the provenance of that cup, it shall not have been destroyed. It is the cup that was seen by the pilgrim Arculf, and thus is revered. Some claim it was upon the table that held the last supper, and was in the presence of Christ and his apostles."

"Of course it was." She snorts, "Just as the bread and wine becomes flesh and blood. Papists will venerate anything if they're told it came from a saint. I knew an old man who had a toenail that he claimed was from St Perpetua. God alone knows who shed it."

I am about to object, until I remember that rather vile finger-bone I found while searching for some form of protection for the Queen during her first pregnancy, "Whether it was in the presence of Christ or it was not is not of concern to us, Madame Askew - our concern is that we know it to be of vital importance, for the infernal battles that arose after the destruction of Lamashtu are now at an end, and it appears that the victor can be repelled by this missing chalice."

For the first time, her sceptical expression falters, "There is a victor? God help us all if he can emerge into this world, then. I may have no time for those who desire to keep all about them unenlightened as to the wonder of God's word; but if dealing with them and one of their relics shall win us freedom from a demon, then I shall do it. Believe me, if it's there to be found, I shall find it for you."

Such is her determination, that I do indeed believe her.

* * *

Cecil joins us again once Madame Askew departs, and we repair to the library in order to search for any information we can find that shall tell us about the chalice that Arculf found in Jerusalem, and whether it is even the same vessel; for, if it is not, then we are wasting valuable time chasing something that we do not need to. Cromwell disappears briefly as Cecil and I make our way down the stairs, and joins us with a satchel, "I forgot to mention this in my haste, gentlemen; Langlès has completed his translation of the document, and it is a great deal more comprehensive than his hasty _précis_ indicated, though it does not have all of the answers that we seek."

"If it can grant us some suggestions as to where else to look, Thomas," Cecil advises, "Then its value shall be all but incalculable."

There is insufficient light for us to all see the words upon the paper, so we all troop upstairs again into the day-bright chamber above and seat ourselves comfortably as Cromwell works his way through the document, "It seems that Arculf did indeed discover a silver chalice in Jerusalem when he was there - and it was most revered, for those who did so thought it to be the cup used at the Last supper - as we surmised." He frowns, then, "But the writer of this document claims it to be older than that, for it is called a chalice, but is instead a silver cup that was made for the priests of the Temple and was never present at the last supper."

Cecil and I share a disappointed look, "If that is so, then is it of use to us?"

Cromwell continues to read awhile, "Perhaps, yes. The writer of this document claims also to have seen the cup, and spoken to a wise man…"

"Another one?" I interrupt, rather cynically.

"…A wise man," Cromwell continues, smiling, "who told him that it was made for the sole purpose of keeping the _shedim_ at bay - though in what manner it did so, and what was meant by ' _shedim_ ', he was not told."

"So at least we know that we are looking for a genuine item." Cecil muses, "As opposed to a flight of fancy?"

"Does the writer offer a better description than merely 'it is a cup, not a chalice?'" I ask, hopefully, "I presume that, as it is not a chalice, it has no foot or stem, so that is at least a start."

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "Though, alas, he does not elaborate upon it. Thus we must be content with the knowledge that it is a cup, and that it has been formed from hammered silver; that it has a dent in it but is not tarnished."

Then I pause, for there is a word that it somewhat familiar, " _Shedim_?" I ask.

"So it says here." Cromwell looks across to me, "Do you know what it means?"

"It is Hebrew," I answer, "The word means 'demons'; though the priests were most keen to prevent belief in such things, for demons were adopted by the people of Israel from those who lived around them, rather than part of orthodox Jewish belief."

"It would seem that someone within the priesthood believed in their existence." Cecil observes, "If they did not, then why obtain a cup that could repel them?" Immediately, he is on his feet, "I have been working on an appendix to the Great Index which categorises the items within by the language in which it is written. I think that I have, more or less, accounted for every document that is in Hebrew. While it may be that there are other documents that we shall require in the form of translations, it seems worthwhile to start there."

While I am relieved that we have papers to work upon, I am still rather dismayed, for I am the only one in the chamber who can read Hebrew - but it would be a great falsehood to say that I can do so with any skill, "If that is so, then I can do only a very little more than guess at meanings - which is most foolish with Hebrew, as it is a language of such age that its structure is based upon the context of the passage of text as a whole. I could not hope to translate the text correctly - not in matters of such importance as this."

"Is there someone we can ask to aid us?" Cecil asks at once.

"I would suggest Joseph Crawcour." Cromwell advises, "He was once a magnificent Silver Sword who held the Fox blades. When he retired and surrendered them, he did not return to the House, but instead offered to remain in London as a Factor for the Order, for he had daughters that he did not wish to leave behind. Alas, he fell ill shortly after doing so, and has remained here as a private citizen. But he would willingly act to aid the Order, so if there are Hebrew documents to be translated, he would do so without hesitation. He is discreet, scholarly and absolutely loyal to our mission."

"He is Jewish?" Cecil asks, bemused, "His name does not suggest it."

"It would not. Most of the Children of Israel in diaspora have adopted names from the countries in which they have settled for use in the community. Too many people are tiresome about the presence of Jewish families in their midst."

"Is there anything else in the document that might be of use to us?" I ask, keenly.

"Very little - though it tells of the fall of Jerusalem to the Saracens, and failure to find the cup when those who knew of its purpose sought to retrieve it. It seems that, in the years prior to the crusades against the Saracens, it was removed and, by unknown means, carried away from the Holy Land, then eventually came into the possession of the Confessor; so this cup from Jerusalem is most definitely the means by which we can repel Eligos."

"Now, all we need to know is how he can manifest," Cecil finishes, "and, should he do so, how we use the cup to defeat him."

"If only it was as easy to do as it is to say." I grumble.

* * *

The collection of documents is, fortunately, not large, and I have sufficient ability with Hebrew to know which documents are most definitely of no use to us, as opposed to those which might be. To translate them properly, however, is a matter for one who is absolutely familiar with the language - preferably as their mother tongue, and we are most fortunate that Joseph Crawcour has remained in London rather than retiring to the House as most Silver Swords are wont to do.

Most of the Jews in London have fled from persecution in Spain and Portugal, where the inquisition questions their conversions to the Christian faith with unnerving degrees of determination. In terms of the law, they are not meant to be in England, either; but King Henry turned a blind eye to their presence, and so they live quietly and largely escape molestation through concealing their activities – though none seem to object when they seek licenses to consume meat during fasting periods. Another task that has been deputed to Mr Crawcour, as the Order has always been open to all faiths, is to ensure the protection of those who have come to London in hopes of safety - though it is a tenuous hope even here.

I have never met the man, though he knows Cromwell very well, as the two have been friends for many years; and we have been made welcome at his simple home in Whitechapel.

"My dear Raven, do come in - please, be seated. Can I offer you some ale?" he turns then to me, "And you must be the Second to the Raven - Mr Rich. Welcome to you - your reputation is quite remarkable, you know."

"It is?" I cannot stop myself; even now the respect of those who know my purpose is still quite astonishing to me.

"Oh, yes indeed it is." The old man smiles, handing me a cup of ale, "Now, how can I be of assistance to you?"

Cromwell hands over the satchel of papers that I have accumulated, "You must be aware that, following the destruction of Lamashtu, the demons of highest rank fought amongst themselves for many years to win the right to take England for their own."

"Indeed."

"That battle is won."

Crawcour goes still, "Who was the victor?"

"A Grand Duke by the name of Eligos."

"God be merciful. How is he to be defeated?"

"Through the use of a silver cup that was once in the Temple of Jerusalem, but then taken and revered as an item used at the Last Supper."

He frowns, "I think I have heard of it - though it has no specific name amongst my people."

"Its whereabouts are presently unknown, I fear, but we have tasked one of the Spies with tracking it down."

"Who have you set upon it?"

"Anne Askew."

Crawcour laughs, "In that case, it shall be found. If it is in London, or even still in England, she shall find it. I have never known anyone as tenacious as she. Though she is quite a handful - for she does not suffer fools at all gladly."

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "But we have still much to do, for we do not know how Eligos shall be summoned, or even whether a summons is required. Furthermore, while we know that we must use this cup, we do not know how to do so. It is our hope that the documents in this satchel shall aid us."

"I shall get to work on it at once - fortunately I have no obligations elsewhere, and Passover ended last week. I shall be as quick as I can; but I must take care to ensure that the translation is accurate."

Decision made, Crawcour is quite keen to talk to me, as we have not met. While I am aware of my reputation in Silver Sword circles, I am far more used to being vilified than admired, and our discussions are most convivial. Before we depart, Cromwell turns to Crawcour, "Are you aware of any difficulties being experienced by your community?"

"Not at present, Raven - but be assured that I shall advise you if that changes."

As we depart, I turn to him, "I take it that the Order offers protection to the Jewish community in London?"

"It does - though we do what we can to protect all who are oppressed, for who else shall do it? We have learned from long experience that there is more to our Mission than merely fighting demons - and so those who need to be kept safe from their fellow men also deserve our aid."

"It seems that, even now, there is still much for me to learn."

"Indeed so, Richie. Life is ever a lesson."

"Then I hope we learn something from this - and soon."


	22. Underground

**A/N:** I'm so sorry - I didn't thank you for your review, Starfire201 - yes indeed, that came completely out of left field, thanks to the application of blinkers while bringing about reform in England. Fortunately, all is not lost - now they have to start looking for that cup...

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

 _Underground_

I am sure that we have made at least some progress since I departed Nonsuch - but it most certainly does not feel as though we have. We know what we are looking for, but that is all - just as it was with the Fires; it is not in my hands, nor would I know what to do with it if it was.

"You seem discouraged, Richie." Cromwell says, as we sup in his quarters - as temporary as mine given that we arrived so unexpectedly.

"Forgive me, Thomas. I do not mean to - for we have learned much. I just wish that our learning had been accompanied by actual gains - for we know what we must do, but not how to do it, and even if we _did_ , I do not have the means to accomplish it."

"It is a quest upon which we have only just embarked - I suspect that you are expecting too much of yourself again; though I do not blame you, for it is a fault of mine also." He smiles as he carves at a leg of ham, "There is little that we can do here, now - so I suggest that we return to Nonsuch on the morrow and resume our more usual duties. Mr Crawcour shall provide us with his translations as soon as he may, and then we can turn our attentions back to this matter."

"And, with luck, Madame Askew shall be in a position to advise us upon the location of the cup, and thus it can be recovered." I add, "Though I wish that I were more able to participate in the search - for it was my helplessness while we sought Red Fire that caused me such strain."

Our conversation moves onto other matters then, and we end the evening with another game of cards, though I think that Cromwell only agrees to play in order to distract me, for I know that he does not like to lose - and that is almost the normal state of affairs when we play cards. I know that he is right in that there is little value in worrying over that which is out of our hands - but already I can feel that awful sense of anxiety settling over me like a cloying blanket. And I cannot hide it, for such is my distraction that Cromwell wins six hands in a row, and I know that he is looking at me with mild concern.

I am not at all surprised to find that I cannot sleep at all well, and I make a most unprepossessing sight the next morning as we meet in the Deal Yard where our horses are awaiting us for the ride back to Nonsuch. In the years that have passed, I had forgotten how events beyond my control can affect me; and I know that it is most foolish to be so desperate over matters that are in the hands of others.

Our journey is quiet, though Cromwell does what he can to engage me in conversation. He knows, as I do, that the task ahead is mine rather more than it is his; for I am the Second to the Raven and thus I must seek out and find that which he needs in order to accomplish his mission. God above - the search has barely begun, and I am already anxious that I shall fail. What shall I be like if this search is not completed quickly?

Oh, this is ridiculous. I should know better after so many years, should I not? Nothing was ever achieved through worrying, and I know that from personal experience. Forcing myself to put the thoughts from my head, I turn to Cromwell, "Forgive me - I am doing naught but wasting time pointlessly."

"There is nothing to forgive, Richie. You worry because you care. If you did not, then I should truly be concerned."

"There was a time when I would not have done." I admit, with a sigh, "I would have cared for nothing but my own advancement, and worried not at all."

"And I should have failed in my mission." Cromwell finishes, "But you cared, and thus, I did not."

By the time we reach the Palace, it seems horribly overcrowded, for we left it before most of the Court had arrived, and have spent several days at Whitehall in the absence of all but a few. How strange it is - how many of these people are truly necessary to the government of England? Probably less than half - but still they are present, and assuming themselves to be essential to the continuance of the safety of the Kingdom.

John has provided hot water for me to wash, and a change of clothes, thank God, and thus I am entirely more presentable when I receive a summons from the Regent to present myself to her and to the King for supper tonight. I imagine she wishes to be advised as to what we have learned - though I fear it is not as much as I should like to tell her.

Cromwell is already present, as is Somerset, when I arrive at the Regent's Privy Chamber, and we seat ourselves to sup upon various fine fishes, for it is a Friday. I am most relieved to find that the dishes include tunny as well as carp and perch, for I have never been able to make myself enjoy river-fish, though the expense of the tunny is unusual, for the Regent is still most determined to continue to reduce our expenditure.

"I am aware of your loathing for carp, my Lord." The Regent smiles at me, "Thus I thought it would be unfair to force you to eat it."

"I am most grateful, your Majesty."

Our discussions of our recent discoveries is - naturally - short; but it appears that the King has more to discuss than a cup and how it might be used. He has been thinking of another matter that could prove most difficult for the Kingdom.

"I wish to consider the religious strife that is still present in the Realm, gentlemen." He says, "I appreciate that the divisions that have riven this nation are deep and strong - for those of us who do not wish to resubmit ourselves to the rule of another, are set against those who do. We must find some means to reconcile those differences as best we can. Perhaps some form of religious settlement that shall enable all to feel that they are not obliged to act against their consciences."

I find I cannot help but cast a quick glance at the Queen Regent, for she is one of those who would prefer us to resubmit England to Rome; but she shall not overrule her King, regardless of her rights to rule in his stead. That would most certainly not bode at all well for England's future. I am not surprised to see that she is rather disappointed that her late King's will shall not be overturned.

Cromwell, on the other hand, looks quietly pleased - but not overly so, fortunately, "It shall be hard to strike an appropriate balance, Majesty. For there are many now alive who have never known submission to the Bishop of Rome; but there are also many who have - and I could not abide to place any man in the same situation as the late Sir Thomas More, or Doctor John Fisher. Their blood is upon my hands, and their souls upon my conscience. Thus we must take the greatest of care to ensure that each side is angered as little as possible, for I fear that true compromise shall be beyond our hopes."

The King looks rather concerned, until he sees the look upon Cromwell's face, "Are you prepared to attempt to do so, my Lord?"

Of course he is - he has never backed away from a challenge in his life; and what greater challenge than this? To establish accord between two entirely opposing religious groups?

And I thought that finding a silver cup would be hard.

* * *

Cromwell is sitting at his desk, and looks troubled, "I think, Richie, that this time I have truly taken on a challenge that is beyond me. Nothing is more immutable than the faith of a true believer - and certainly there is no hope of compromise. There are those who expect us never to return to Rome, and others who are equally expectant that we shall."

"His Majesty shall not, I think. He has been raised in the new faith." I remind him.

"I agree - but her Majesty was raised in the old; and there are many subjects who assume that she shall use this opportunity to overturn the late King's rejection of Papal authority. He was, after all, a Catholic in all respects but for one, and one alone - he could not, _would_ not, accept the authority of any man over his own."

"And indeed he did not." I sit for a while, thinking, "But it remains the case - how can we possibly find any common ground between the two faiths? Each is utterly opposed to the other."

"But not at the most fundamental level, Richie. We all look to God, do we not? Our differences lie in far lesser arguments - and perhaps we must learn that, while God is infallible, men are not; and He does not demand that we approach Him in one way and no other. I have never found any scripture where He does so."

"Then you are alone, for I have not read any scripture." I admit, "I have always left that to men more qualified than I."

"But in what way are they more qualified?" Cromwell answers, "How is it that only men who have been ordained are permitted to read God's word? If that is so, then why were they written down - for why set His words on paper only to refuse to permit people to read them?"

I have no answer for that.

"All I can suggest is that we grant protection to all from punishment or censure - whether they be reformer or conservative. People have died hideous deaths on both sides of this divide - all because of a decree that they must believe in God _this_ way, and not _that_ way. If they are true to God, then who are we to say how they speak to Him? After all, we have both seen His power, and I have no doubt that He can hear their words with equal facility whether they turn to a priest as their intercessor, or through the power of the Son of God."

"That is my thought - but we must be most careful even with that - for those who are opposed to such a rapprochement would claim that it would grant licence to men to deny God."

"Indeed so; the battle that we shall face to get this through Parliament shall be extensive, I fear."

"But we must do it - this cannot come from Royal decree alone." Cromwell insists, "Not in a matter of such importance as this. I, for one, do not wish to ever again hear the agonised screams of a martyr at the stake."

It takes us perhaps two days to draft a first attempt, and the Regent calls us to her chambers again to discuss it. The King is present again, as is Somerset, but also the Lady Elizabeth, which surprises me rather, for she has no role in Government. It is clear, however, that she shall not be dismissed, and she takes her seat at the table alongside Somerset.

"Please show me your thoughts, my Lords." It is the King who asks, rather than the Regent, and she is clearly content to allow him to take the lead as Cromwell passes him the papers. Rather than read them in silence, instead he reads them aloud, thus granting all at the table the opportunity to hear the clauses.

Once he is finished, I can see that Queen Jane is quite relieved, for we have done all that we can to ensure that no faith has primacy over the other - those who wish to practise the Catholic faith may do so without censure, while those who wish to practise the Reformed Faith receive equal courtesy, "After all," Cromwell advises, quietly, "Did not our Lord say _Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and render unto God that which is God's_?" I know that he does not think highly of the intercession of priests, so it is hard for him to make such a concession.

"I agree wholeheartedly, my Lord." Elizabeth says, "I, for one, would not open windows into Men's souls."

Everyone stares at her, surprised: a simple statement that says so much. Queen Jane has the grace to look a little embarrassed, for she has never thought in such terms. Her stepdaughter is, of course, a highly intelligent and very well educated young woman.

She lifts her chin, almost defiantly, "Is that not what we are intent upon achieving? For my face, I grant, I might well blush to offer, but my mind - I shall never be ashamed to present."

"Indeed no, Madame." Somerset says, rising to his feet and bowing to her, "You have put into words that which is our aim - and so simply, too. If we are to win a settlement on this matter, then it must be by leading through example, I fear; for who shall follow if we do not lead? I think it meet, Majesty, that we invite the Lady Elizabeth to sit at the Council Table, for she has the intelligence to speak wise words - and is not ashamed to do so."

Edward looks very pleased, "I agree, your Grace." He beams, "I shall decree it so as soon as is possible. It is most unfair to ask my sister to reside at Court, and yet give her no opportunity to aid us in our government. She is the daughter of a King, after all."

If the faces around me are anything to go by, I am not the only one who is impressed by such a statement. I can already imagine the horror upon the faces of the other councillors - for she is a woman. A _woman_? At the _Council_ Table? The scandal of it!

"I should warn you, Majesty, that the men of the Council shall object; and they shall not welcome you, my Lady. For form's sake, they shall accept your presence - but they shall do all that they can to stifle you."

"I am a woman, my Lord - I am well aware of my place in the eyes of men." She answers, quite calmly, "I am also well aware of the weakness of men. If I cannot earn my place through my words, I can do so through my eyes and ears. _Video et taceo_."

God above, she is as wise beyond her years as her brother. Such is the legacy of a life lived in the court of Henry Tudor, I fear; but she is right - for we know she is remarkably intelligent, but her presence shall inspire condescension and - with luck - loose talk that she can note and report to us. King's daughter she may be - but still she is a daughter of Eve, and thus considered to be less than a man; and that is her strongest weapon.

We spend a very enjoyable hour discussing the draft settlement Bill; and, while most of the original draft remains intact, a number of amendments are added which improves its overall scope. Satisfactory though the discussions have been, however, it shall be far, far harder to persuade both the Lords and Parliament to accept it. For every man who wishes to outlaw obeisance to the Pope, there shall be one who wishes to outlaw failure to do so. But then - if Cromwell can accept the need to reach a compromise, then surely others can do likewise?

Now we shall have to wait, and see.

* * *

As with most of the other palaces, the offices at Nonsuch are too confined to offer me an office chamber of my own, and I preside over the clerks as they work; much to Wriothesley's annoyance. He has double reason to be irked with me, then; for he has seen the draft Religious Settlement, and his acceptance of it has been lukewarm at best. He is, of course, very much a religious conservative, and would prefer us to return to Rome. I have no opinion one way or the other anymore, for I have seen bigotry of the most egregious kind on both sides of the religious wall; and thus, as far as I am concerned, I want the matter settled once and for all. England shall not return to Rome - but those who wish to subject themselves to the Pope may do so without threat or punishment. Those who wish to remain within the reformed Church of England - which shall certainly be reformed further if Cranmer has his way - shall have the same protection. No number of Papal Bulls shall change that.

If only it could be as easy to make it happen as it is to say it.

Certainly we have found opposition from all who have seen it - whether they be Catholic or Reformer. Neither side accepts that the other has any validity. One is right, the other is wrong - and must be absolutely stamped out with the utmost savagery. In the name of God's Love. Apparently.

How sad it is when the most grown up of us all are two children.

As we move from Spring into Summer, matters do not improve. Parliament has shown the exact same divisions and refusals to compromise - and I am beginning to wonder if it would serve us better for the King to go to the Commons and browbeat them into setting their prejudices aside for long enough to think of the wider view.

To add to our problems, we have finally begun to attract raveners at our new Palace, and thus Cromwell and I have resumed our evening hunts. Thanks to that ghastly infusion, which John now prepares for me, I am no longer troubled by those hideous visions, and thus we rely upon Cromwell's senses to find the horrible creatures. I suspect that, were I to experience those visions again, I would be able to see where each one is hiding - but I would then be too incapacitated to assist.

Fortunately, whatever concoction his apothecary has brewed is holding Cromwell's stiffness at bay, and so far I have not been obliged to go to his aid - though I do, now and again, battle our nocturnal problems in order to retain the skill to do so. I am, however, not as young as I was - and the lack of sleep is beginning to strain me far more than it did when I first began to participate in these hunts.

There is also no word from Anne Askew - for she is of the firm belief that there is no point in reporting that she has made no progress - thus, when I finally receive something from her, I know it shall contain something of worth. Nonetheless, the silence, allied to my lack of sleep, is making me embarrassingly bad tempered again, and I am fighting with myself not to look a fool by getting into a stupid argument over nothing. I have not forgotten a time when I had a completely ridiculous squabble with Wriothesley over the consistency of a bottle of ink; and I have no wish to look such an idiot again.

As July begins, it is becoming clear that we must move, for the middens are beginning to become utterly offensive; and so the Regent decrees that we remove to Hampton Court, for it is nearer than the City palaces; and, in such hot weather, the shorter the journey, the better. Thus we set to work again on sorting the papers to go back to Whitehall for archiving, and the papers to travel with us. Thank God Wriothesley deals with that nonsense these days.

Baxter is awaiting me in my chambers when I return from the offices with some relief, for the heat there is quite oppressive. John has let him in and seated him with a glass of chilled ale, and I am - at first - hopeful for correspondence from Madame Askew. I am, however, to be disappointed in that respect.

"Mr Crawcour sends his apologies for the delay in finishing these translations, Mr Rich." Baxter advises, handing me a large wallet, "There was an outbreak of sickness in the City, and people decided that it was thanks to the Jews poisoning the wells again, so he had to set the work aside while we worked to contain the problem and keep his neighbours safe."

Damnation. Why do people always blame outsiders for things that are not their fault? While I have not the first idea where such contagions come from, I am quite convinced that it is not the deliberate poisoning of wells. I have no doubt that the man I used to be would have used such childish perceptions to his own advantage, but the man that I am now would not even consider it, "Has all settled again?"

"It has - the sickness died back quite swiftly, and folk found other things to amuse themselves with."

He departs with my thanks, and I settle down to go through the papers that Crawcour worked upon. To my dismay, almost all of them are of no use to us - but there is one, a small paper that looks remarkably old. The translation has a note upon it that advises me to treat the translation carefully, for the original text is ancient in style, and he cannot be entirely certain that he has captured the words correctly.

Rather than read over the paper alone, I instead send John to fetch Cromwell, and we sit and consider it together. The text is short - for the paper was torn and thus that which is likely to be of most use to us is gone; but it refers to a rider on a red horse, the bringer of war and conquest, and proclaims that only a ritual shall bring him forth - and thus a ritual shall banish him. Unfortunately, the rest of the information is not present - as though someone wanted to make use of it, and took it long ago. Thus we know now that there are rituals involved - which we had already guessed - but no more than that.

"Do not look so downcast, Richie," Cromwell advises, calmly, "in matters such as this, patience is our best weapon. We have not yet heard from Madame Askew. I suspect that her report shall be infinitely more helpful than these papers have proved to be."

He is right, of course; Anne Askew is the best of the spies in London - if not in all of England. If she cannot find the cup, then no one can. I just wish it wasn't taking so long.

* * *

The weather has become oppressively warm again, and I am thoroughly miserable in my overly warm garments as we ride north to Hampton Court. That it is less of a journey than it would be to Whitehall or Placentia is of no interest - the sun is beating down, and the requirements of my station in life to wear a heavy doublet and thick simarre are proving to be a miserable burden. The only good thing about it is the knowledge that we shall not be obliged to endure the horror of the stench of rotting wounds and a temper of such dread proportions that one's life could be considered to be at risk if one provoked it.

Fortunately, once we are well away from the Palace, the simarre is rolled up and set to the rear of my saddle, while my doublet hangs open in a most uncouth manner. It is, however, better than being wrapped up, and I am not in the least bit concerned as to what people might think. We are not surrounded by Courtiers, and so no one shall comment - for what do the peasants care anyway? They do not know who we are.

That said, it is a great relief to reach Hampton Court, and I am soon installed in my usual apartments, my arms dipped up to my elbows in cold water, which I also splash upon my face. It is scented with rosewater, which helps to banish the ghastly odour of horse and sweat at least a little - though I fear a bath shall be required to eradicate it completely.

I emerge from my bedchamber feeling rather better, and find that John has provided not only a flagon of chilled ale, but also a letter from Anne Askew.

 _I have news, Mr Rich. The cup was indeed stolen by one of the monks of the Abbey, and is held by a small congregation in St Giles Cripplegate. They are Roman, and revere it like the idolators that they are. Advise before I proceed further. A A._

Short, and to the point, then. But I know that Madame Askew is as fired up for the new faith as those she dislikes are wedded to the old: it was responsible for her near death prior to her rescue by the Order. Perhaps she, too, shall find the new Settlement to be as tiresome as everyone else seems to. Though I am not sure I should like to put it to the test; I suspect she is more educated in the scriptures than I am.

Cromwell is equally pleased at the news, though his eyebrows migrate towards his hairline at her sentiments over the congregation who claim now to have the Jerusalem Chalice, "She is, at least, waiting for our response prior to any further action, Richie. Thus I think we shall visit this church ourselves to seek out their precious relic. I suspect that even I shall be less of an inflammatory presence than Madame Askew - and if I assure them that their worship is not offensive to the state, then I am sure they are likely to believe me."

"If nothing else, Thomas," I cannot help but smile at him, "You shall scare the very devil out of them."

* * *

Queen Jane nods, "Of course, my Lord Cromwell. If it is necessary for you and my Lord of Leighs to return to London to seek out this cup, then I think it is important that you depart as soon as you may. How long do you anticipate being away?"

Cromwell sighs, "That, Majesty, I cannot begin to estimate. It is my hope that the cup remains with those who took it - for our agent has not seen the cup itself. It is instead hearsay, and thus we must take care to avoid driving those who retain it into hiding. For while we intend to establish an appropriate religious settlement that shall protect them from molestation over their choice of means to approach our Lord, the strife that arose in the latter years of our late King's reign has caused all to feel uncertainty over the safety of their particular choices."

We all exchange glances, for those last years of Henry's reign were indeed troublesome as his religious faith shifted from absolute conservatism to a more reformist view - and back again - as the months passed. There was even a single day in London where an equal number of unfortunates faced the fire for one form of heresy or another. How could any truly feel secure in their faith if its validity was unquestioned on one day, but then utterly opposed upon the next? No wonder people feel happier to worship more privately these days if their faith does not accord with whatever the Established Church is today.

Cranmer, of course, is most keen to ensure that we remain free from the shackles of Rome - as he describes it. With no other bishop presently at Court, he is unopposed politically - but we all know that the Bishop of London, Edmund Bonner, is as determined to reimpose those shackles as Cranmer is to keep us from them. The only reason that none have gone to the fire since the Coronation is that no one dares to do so until they can feel assured that the King agrees that heretics must be burned. Being a child of ten, however, he is monumentally horrified at such a prospect, and thus would not countenance it even if we did return to Rome.

I most certainly would fight against any attempt to reinstate burning, for even the fear of being run through by the red Knight has not diminished my terror of death by fire. The Order I serve is open to all faiths, and so I am not as convinced that one way or another is absolutely right. I have seen God's power, and it came to us unbidden by a priest; so I am no longer quite so certain that no man can approach the Almighty in any other manner than through intercession by one ordained.

Fortunately, Queen Jane is equally tolerant of other faiths these days - for she, too, has seen that holy Power is not available only when asked for by a man in religious vestments. I suspect that, had she had a choice, she would have brought her sons up to share her views - but they were tutored by reformers, and thus she accepts that Edward is very much a child of the Church of England, as is her own Brother.

She is, however, less certain of Cromwell in such things, "And what shall you do when you find these worshippers?"

"Assure them that they are safe from censure, Majesty. My own zeal for reform has put us in this dangerous position, and thus I have lost any right to judge others in such manner. Besides - to raise further religious strife would throw the mission in to confusion, for it would generate only chaos as men fought each other over which of the faiths was true. All I would ask of them is to grant me the cup, for it is needed to save England from harm. I would only consider it meet to arrest them if they are overtly plotting against the Crown; if they are not, then I intend to leave them to their worship." He eyes her with a rather impish smile, "I can put that in writing if you wish, Majesty."

She has the grace to blush; but he looks a little sad then, "I allowed my own prejudices to blind me to my mission, Majesty. I must therefore make amends, even as we seek that which shall save us from my foolishness. I give you my word as your loving subject and servant that I shall not seek to harm any who might not share my faith."

"Then go, my Lords, and seek out this cup. I shall ask Mr Paget to stand in your stead while you are absent - take as long as you need. The safety of England comes above all else."

We bow and depart, "I have arranged with Madame Askew to meet at Grant's Place tomorrow evening," I advise Cromwell, "she shall join us to sup."

I am not surprised to find that John has already begun to pack a few items into the larger of my saddlebags to travel back to London, for I shall not require my fine court clothes while we are away; and I still retain a fair stock of clothing at Grant's Place from when I commuted there while researching the Fires. I shall sup with Cromwell tonight, then take another draught of that vile infusion, before dispatching another letter to my little daughter as I promised her that I would, and retiring to bed.

* * *

The late August sunshine is most welcome, particularly as it has proved to be an excellent year for growing. The harvest shall be good, and food prices shall remain stable for the coming winter, so to those who believe such things, God is clearly pleased with England's new young King. Certainly the fields are busy with the local peasantry as they toil to bring in that excellent harvest, and we find ourselves being obliged to pass numerous great wains heaped high with multitudinous golden fronds of wheat.

Benedict and Urban have travelled this route enough times to almost know their own way, and thus we are free to talk without too much concentration on where we are going. It could not be clearer to me that Cromwell is hoping almost desperately that we shall find the cup in the hands of this congregation that Madame Askew has identified; and I sympathise - for I was equally frantic to locate Red Fire - and just as helpless in the face of its ongoing absence.

"With luck, we shall have the cup in but a day or so - and can then concentrate upon finding the documents that shall enable us to use it." He says, as we depart from our favourite inn, having dined well.

"And there's the rub." I add, "For those documents are nowhere to be found - and I have no clues within any other documents as to where they might be. All I can say with any certainty is that they exist."

"William might well have found something while we have been away."

I try as hard as I can not to show the doubt that I feel. If that were so, then certainly Cecil would have informed us; but he has not.

The streets of London are stiflingly hot and utterly foul with refuse and sewage after the cool freshness of the open gardens at Hampton Court, and we are both most relieved to reach Grant's Place as the afternoon draws towards evening. Behind us, as the gates are closed, the skies are darkening like a bruise, and I am sure that I hear thunder as we make our way indoors. Thank God most of the harvest has been brought in from the fields.

By the time Madame Askew arrives to sup with us, the rain is hammering down, punctuated by vivid flashes of lightning, and savage peals of thunder. Within the house, however, all is considerably quieter. Cecil shall sup with the other members of the household while we are discussing the cup, and how to obtain it.

"It's most remarkable that they are where they are." She begins, as Cromwell serves her some mutton, "St Giles is as for our faith as they are for Rome, so they move between each others' houses. The local Rector knows nothing about them - but I imagine they spend most of their time praying that he'll see things their way before long and throw out the heretics. Probably into the nearest fire."

I cannot stop a shudder, and she notices, "Not keen on martyrdom, Mr Rich?"

"I came rather closer to death by fire than I should have liked, Quaesitor," I admit, "Courtesy of the demon Zaebos."

"It is my hope that we shall stop such cruelty in future." Cromwell adds, "From either side of the argument."

"I would not argue with that." She agrees, cheerfully, "When do you want to go in search of these nervous recusants?"

"Tomorrow, I think. If they are as devout as they sound, then I imagine that they hold Mass every day."

"They most certainly are - though it's impossible to know from one day to the next which house they go to. You have to watch a beggar outside the church of St Giles; he wears a scarf of a certain colour to say which house they shall be at. I am told that their Mass is at eleven in the morning."

"And you know which colour signifies which house." I add, though I do not frame it as a question; which is just as well, as she looks at me rather pityingly.

Our conversation over supper is quite wide ranging. Additional to her queries over the whereabouts of the cup - which required her to speak to a remarkably large number of individuals in all manner of different places - she has also been making quite enquiries over papers that give more information about it. So far she has had no success, any more than Cecil has, but she has a few more people to try, so she is not discouraged.

The rain has abated by the time she departs, "Be at Cripplegate by ten of the clock tomorrow. I shall meet you there."

And so our hunt begins.

* * *

The sun is warm again, but the air is noticeably fresher after last night's storm as Cromwell and I make our way south east on foot from Grant's Place. As it is little more than a mile, we have given ourselves ample time, and we do not hurry.

We have also taken great care to look less like wealthy men; which required the assistance of one of Miss Parsons's men to ensure that our attempts would be at least halfway convincing. I note that Cromwell is not walking with that dignified straightness that marks his progress through the Court; instead stooping slightly. Being younger, I am less obliged to do so, but I attempt as best I can to modify my manner of walking to resemble a man who is used to harder work than pushing a quill across a page.

Our swords have remained behind; and we are armed instead with weaponry that would not look out of place in the hands of workmen. If, after all, a sword is required; I am obliged merely to hold out my hand and summon one.

For reasons I cannot fathom, I feel quite concerned that our actions to prevent a demonic incursion are somehow known by all, and I turn to Cromwell as we walk along, "Are we observed?" I suspect that, had I the ability to control the sight that my sword has bestowed upon me - and I was not suppressing it through the use of that infusion, I would know it; but I cannot, and thus I am blind.

"I think not." Cromwell advises, "Though I am watching in case we are. I doubt, however, that I shall see Madame Askew before she sees us. She is very adept at remaining unseen when the need arises."

We make our way west along Fore Street, the slowly crumbling city wall to our left. I imagine it must once have been a truly imposing structure, rising to a fair height and with watchtowers along its length; but while the wall remains high, the towers are gradually falling into disrepair, and their stones surreptitiously removed to be used in other structures - for London has long since outgrown the defences that once enclosed it.

Cripplegate, on the other hand, remains in excellent condition, standing tall and proud. Despite the growth of the City, the gates are still locked at night; though mostly for form's sake rather than for any more worthwhile reason, I think. We reach it just as the clock of St Giles - a short distance away - chimes the hour of ten, and there is no sign of Madame Askew.

"I wonder where she is." I mutter, partly to myself, for I know she is almost certainly watching us from somewhere.

"Well hidden." Cromwell agrees, "I cannot see her." Neither of us believe for a moment that she is late.

While we wait for her to reveal herself to us, I turn my attention to the Church, which is in a most lamentable state, having been horribly damaged by fire only two years ago. The walls have largely been raised again, and I can see joiners working to establish roof joists, while, at the foot, I can see a man seated upon the ground, cup in hand, seeking alms.

The beggar, I presume. Yes - he must be, for he is wearing a remarkably well conditioned kerchief about his neck that is a rather vivid shade of yellow for one of such poor means.

I am about to report my observation to Cromwell when I notice his attention suddenly caught, and then he smiles, "There she is."

I turn in the same direction, but see no one other than a group of roughly dressed men busy with some kegs that they are transferring from a large dray into a nearby tavern, and then I realise what our Spy has done. While it seems most sensible to me for a woman to dress in male attire when travelling alone, if not for practical reasons, then for protection from unwanted attention; it has always been considered all but anathema, for the Bible states that _the woman shall not wear what pertaineth unto a man_ , and it is only thanks to Thomas Aquinas that women are granted at least a small hope of favour in that he agreed it was sinful, unless driven by necessity. Whether this could be counted as necessity, however, I cannot say with any certainty.

Her movements as she approaches us are so similar to the walk of a man that not one person takes any note of her, and she nods a greeting before indicating with a jerk of her head that we should continue on to the church, where there are fewer people gathered, "Yellow." She says, as I had noticed, "That means that they're in the house of Nathaniel Frobisher; a short walk away on Milk Street, back in the City."

God above, I know Milk Street - for I was born in that very parish of St Lawrence Jewry. Some of my family are buried in that church. How ironic; for they are but a short step from Honey Lane, where the congregation of All Hallows are as firmly for the new faith as they seem to be for the old.

"Have you ingratiated yourself with this group, then, Quaesitor?" Cromwell asks, as we make our way south along Wood Street.

"Vaguely. I have affected to look interested, as though fearful of joining them; thus I have become welcome without being obliged to participate in their papist rituals."

"And, I take it, you have not seen the cup."

"Not yet." She pauses, "Your arrival shall turn not a few sets of bowels to water, I think."

We pause on Cheapside to allow Madame Askew to leave ahead of us, "It is a large house - two gables and a large door. There'll be a corn-doll in the shape of a lantern on the outside, with red ribbons. He's a wheat merchant so people expect it." With that, she departs, leaving us amongst the crowds of people who serve to conceal us most effectively.

I stand quietly and listen out for the bells of the nearby church of St Mary le Bow, while Cromwell lounges against a wall at the corner with Milk Street and watches surreptitiously as people slowly gather. The house is clearly visible from our vantage point, and it is clear that the door is not locked, for people approach, and enter as though they live there; though they do so at very wide intervals. They must think their precautions to be highly effective, then; for it seems that no one is keeping watch to see they are not observed - and I know the area well enough to know that there would be no means of escape from the back of that house, for the buildings here are too packed together to allow it. Once we enter, they shall be trapped.

Shortly after the church clock strikes eleven, it is clear that the congregation has assembled and - presumably - the door is now locked to prevent unwanted entry. Unless, of course, their lock is extensively complex, that shall not be much use as a precaution, for I note even now that Cromwell has fetched out his set of picks.

So adept is he at picking a lock, that to any watcher he would appear to have used a key - and we are almost immediately inside the entrance hall, whose dark aspect is darkened further by the hue of the wooden beams. Ironically, the work that has been done to ensure the door opens silently in order to conceal the number of worshippers who enter, serves to conceal our arrival, and it is clear from the sound of voices in a chamber beyond that our arrival is unnoticed. I am about to move, when Cromwell shakes his head, and I realise that the mass is not a long service - for the priest is already presenting the Host; and the Raven has no wish to disturb communion - particularly if they are using that cup…

While the number of celebrants is not large, there are still sufficient to keep us waiting outside the room for nearly ten minutes, and it is only when the Priest is clearly moving on to perform a blessing that Cromwell finally moves, and we enter the room. All heads turn at once, for we are not familiar to any present, and they do not know who we are - but they know why we are there. They must know, for all are suddenly very still, and not a single face shows any emotion other than fear.

"Forgive my intrusion." Cromwell begins, calmly, "But I must ask you all to remain where you are. None of you are at risk of arrest, I assure you - but I am given to understand that you possess something that I need, and I must perforce ask you to turn it over to me."

And then one of them realises who he is, "God have mercy!" he is on his feet, "I cannot believe that you are not here to arrest us, my Lord Cromwell!"

In an instant, the entire congregation is all a-clamour, as all present believe that they have been discovered by men who shall martyr them, and the hubbub is such that no single speaker can be heard.

Cromwell immediately draws himself up to his full height, " _BE SILENT_!"

Such is their fear of him, that they all comply.

"As I stated when first I entered the room," He repeats, firmly, "I am _not_ here to arrest or censure any member of this congregation. _None_ of you shall face trial or questioning for your act of communion this day. I am told that you are in possession of the communion cup of Edward the Confessor, and thus I am here to request that you grant it to me - for it must be used for the protection of England herself, and there is no other vessel or relic that shall suffice."

No one moves, or speaks; though they all look most bemused when he seems to sag somewhat.

"You really do need to do something to address your reputation, my Lord." I admonish him, with a rather martyred sounding sigh.

"Perhaps, yes;" he agrees, a little sheepishly, "But I find it _so_ effective with annoying Courtiers."

Now they are all exchanging glances, wondering what on earth to make of us; and then they look nervous as hell as he smiles at them all unnervingly brightly, "Forgive me, everyone. Do you have in your possession a rather fine silver cup that is reputed to have belonged to Saint Edward of England? We are in rather desperate need of it, you see."

And now, they are terrified.

I turn to the trembling man at the front of the congregation, who is staring at us in silent horror, "Please - I think that we are approaching this in a most disastrous fashion; but our request is of great importance, and we are truly not here to arrest or snatch you. The practise of your faith is your affair, and we are interested only in the cup - and I promise you, that if it aids us, and we are able to restore it to you after we have used it, we shall do so."

To my relief, my assurance seems to calm him, but he still looks most concerned, "Forgive me, I wish that I could do so - for we did indeed have the cup of the Blessed Saint Edward."

"Did?" I ask, my heart already sinking somewhat.

"Alas, yes - but, while we were meeting a few weeks ago, while the cup was with us, we were celebrating mass in the house of another member of our congregation. There was one among us: a most troubled youth by the name of Edmund Northall. He was of good family, but was without portion or inheritance, for he was the fourth of five sons. He had been a novice at a nearby priory until its closure; and, once freed from the obligations of his vows, he took up with regrettable company. The last time that we saw the cup, was the last time that we saw Edmund Northall."

"Thank you." Cromwell says, quietly, "I appreciate your aid, and we shall leave you in peace. You should know that we are in the process of drafting a law that shall ensure that no one is obliged to hide their faith for fear of punishment. Thus I assure you that you shall not be punished for your gatherings - and indeed I suggest that you meet more openly if you can; for to meet as you do now leads to the impression of a conspiracy. The planning of such I am quite convinced you are all entirely innocent."

We leave them as promised, and make our way back up to the church, "So close." Madame Askew sighs, "I shall set to work on finding this Edmund Northall in hopes of locating this wretched cup once and for all." She steps away from us and is almost immediately lost in the crowd.

"So much for a quick resolution." I mumble, disappointed, "I am glad you did not give the Regent a suggested date of our return."

"As am I." Cromwell agrees, equally crestfallen. We had rested a great deal of hope upon this discovery - but it seems that the fates are ahead of us.

And so we must start all over again.


	23. The Horrible Players

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Catalina - I must admit that my rendition of the establishment of a religious settlement is entirely thanks to the AU aspect of the story, but the battle to get it made law is yet to begin, and there'll be resistance on both sides of the faith divide.

At the risk of sounding a bit trite, I'm honoured that you've recommended my tales - I hope they go down well!

And now a brief interlude of humour as our heroes are obliged to endure an evening of truly dreadful entertainment...

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

 _The Horrible Players_

Our return to Grant's Place is rather subdued, for we had hoped to have secured the cup, and could thus be free to continue our search for the information needed in order to use it. Instead, we are no more aware of its location than we were when we began, and must seek out a man in a city of a hundred thousand or more, in the hope that he still has it. Which, I have no doubt, he does not. God help us - it could be anywhere by now.

I have little appetite for the dinner that Miss Parsons serves us, and I note that Cromwell seems equally disinterested. Cecil is clearly rather concerned at our morose faces, "Madame Askew shall find him - I am sure of it. I think it unlikely that any man could hide from her."

"You make her sound most predatory, Mr Cecil." Cromwell smiles. While Cecil has not been party to our discussions with Madame Askew, he could hardly have failed to notice the mission upon which she is engaged.

It is a weak joke, perhaps, but it serves to rouse us from our poor humours, and we begin to do more justice to the victuals that have been provided. But the problem remains; we must find a man who almost certainly does not wish to be found - for he stole something of great value, even if he does not appreciate the _true_ value of the item that he stole.

By evening, we have returned to the library and found little of use to our task - but the arrival of Madame Askew as we emerge for supper proves more promising, "I have not yet found him, my Lords." She advises at once, "To avoid raising hopes; but I have some indications of where he may be hiding, for I have uncovered much about his past. More than that poor priest knew, at least."

There is more than enough for her to join us, and thus we settle down to a haunch of mutton and bread, while she takes a sip of claret and begins, "What the priest knew is largely true - Northall is the fourth of five sons. The family is not wealthy, so all of the boys have been required to make something of themselves, and most of them have. Our young Edmund, on the other hand, showed no talent for anything other than losing large quantities of money, so his father pressed him to take holy orders and he ended up with the Blackfriars at Ludgate - though he was a poor excuse for a novice, I'm told; using the works of the friars as an excuse to escape the cloisters and carry on whoring and drinking where he could…"

"Who told you _that_?" I ask, astounded that she has learned so much.

"One of his former Brothers, Mr Rich - who else?" she asks, as though I am monumentally stupid for not realising such a thing myself. Suitably chastened, I shut my mouth again.

"I suspect that he was the only man in the Priory who rejoiced when your commissioners turned up, Raven," She resumes, "and he took the pension without hesitation - only to start throwing it away wildly upon gambling and drinking just as he had before he was tonsured. Needless to say, he was in debt in a matter of weeks, and getting deeper by the day; and so he started on the theft - though not robbery, he is too much of a feeble sapling for that."

"That is no surprise." Cromwell adds, tiredly, "Who is his fence?"

"He's never associated with one - none of them have heard of him according to my sources."

"I can only assume, then, that he uses Lombards?" I add, relieved that I am unlikely to have said something foolish this time.

"Several, as I understand it, but mostly a Fleming - he claims - called Johan Colldevall. I've been watching him, and if he's a Fleming, then I'm a Dutchman."

"A man not to be trusted, then." Cromwell muses, stroking at his chin in deep thought, "Where is his shop?"

"Watling Street - between Bread Street and Bow Lane." She answers at once, "He's too shifty for Lombard Street. They're at least passing for honest, there. Chances are that Northall's long since hocked that cup - but he goes there frequently, so we can collar him easily enough, and find out for ourselves."

* * *

And so, once more, I emerge the following morning in the roughest clothes I can find, though I note that Cromwell has opted to dress in clothing that suggests a man of means, "Today, Richie, I am a moneylender, and you are my associate. I have no doubt that Northall has accumulated so many debts that they have been sold on to others - and thus I am one to whom he now owes money."

"And I am supposed to beat him up if he refuses to pay?" I ask, cynically. Even in the garments I am wearing, I could not look less of a brute if I tried.

Cromwell laughs, "All I ask of you is to keep a tight grip upon him. I suspect threatening words shall be more than sufficient to intimidate this young man if our Quaesitor is to be believed."

She is awaiting us on the corner of Cheapside and Ironmonger Lane, once more in male attire. How she is so able to conceal her feminine attributes - from her smooth chin to the very manner in which she carries herself, I cannot begin to guess, but it is a most admirable talent.

"We might have to do this a few times, Gentlemen." She advises, as we make our way west, "There's no certainty that he shall visit today, or tomorrow. He is frequent, yes - but not regular."

Madame Askew is - alas - right, and we are obliged to linger about the area for another day and a half before she stops still, and nods, "That's him. The green doublet and bonnet."

The word 'green' seems something of a generous description, as his garments are in a very poor condition, and ill fitting - which suggests that they might well have been stolen from washing lines. Every movement he makes is of a man who knows that he is hunted, and those who seek him are not benign in their intent.

As we are several streets away from the Lombard, it is no matter to fall into step a good number of paces behind him, while Madame Askew waits at the head of a narrow alley some way ahead of us. Between them, the Spy and the Silver Sword are most adept at surreptitious abduction, and Northall is soon cowering from us in the dog-leg of a dark, narrow passageway. To most who live here, it is a scene played out with such regularity that none pay us any mind, and those who enter the alley see us, and merely turn and find another way.

He is quite short, and even I tower over him, never mind Cromwell, but I do as asked, and grasp the youth's arm in a firm grip.

"Good morning Mr Northall." Cromwell begins, in a remarkably businesslike manner, "I am Mr Lane; these are my associates Mr Smog and Mr Blood. I have come into the possession of a number of obligations that are, I believe, yours. I am keen to discuss means of payment."

Christ above - even Madame Askew looks like a tavern brawler now. How the hell does she do it?

Northall struggles to find words, and stammers at us fretfully, "Come now Mr Northall, I am not so fearsome am I? Mr Smog, how much are we owed by our client?" he turns to her.

"Sixteen pounds, two shillings and sixpence, Mr Lane." She answers, her voice deep - though, to one who realises she is not a man, not as deep as it should be. Hell - that is not a sum he can hope to repay, but from the look upon his face, he is not surprised that he owes such an enormous debt.

"I can't pay that, my Lord," he manages, weakly, "I have no money. None at all!"

"Are you quite certain of that?" Cromwell asks, menacingly, "I'm sure if we ask Mr Blood, he shall be able to jog your memory over your finances."

Rather than lean too close, for those stolen garments are rather malodorous, instead, I reach out and grip at the youth's ear. I remember how Zaebos frightened me when he threatened to cut off one of mine.

"Please!" Northall squeals, "I haven't anything! I swear!"

"Then we are at something of an impasse, are we not?" Cromwell continues, "Do you have anything that you can retrieve, perhaps?"

The youth sees the opening he has been offered, and snatches at it, "Yes, my Lord, yes - I do! I hocked a silver cup to a Lombard on Watling Street but a week ago - to that Mr Colldevall. You must know him, mustn't you?" He squeals again as I pinch his ear, "He only gave six shillings for it - but it's worth more than what you want from me! If you redeem it, you can take it to a proper silversmith and we can be done with the debt!"

Cromwell stands back, as though considering the offer, "If I agree to this, then know that, should you be playing me false, I shall find you - no matter what rat-hole you crawl into - and you'll go and spend your end days with old father Thames, courtesy of a large rock tied to your ankles."

"I'm not lying, my Lord!" Northall blubbers, fretfully, "I swear it!"

Cromwell then leans close to him again, "Then I shall take your word for it. Get out of London, Northall. Go find an honest trade before you find yourself on the end of a rope - for if I fail to reclaim your debt, I shall see you hang." He flicks his chin to the side, dismissing the boy, who scrambles from us and flees.

"Foolish boy." I mutter, crossly, "Do you think he shall listen to you?"

"No - but if he _does_ end up dancing from a string at Tyburn, then it shall not be upon my conscience." Cromwell sighs, "Come, let us see if this Lombard still has the cup."

* * *

From a distance, the house of this man Colldevall seems like those either side of it; and there is no indication of his trade. Watching from a distance, Cromwell's eyes narrow, "He is not a true Lombard. He claims to be one, but he is nothing more than a fence masquerading as a Lombard."

"There is a difference?" I ask, rather spitefully, I must admit.

"All the difference in the world, Richie; a Lombard would never accept an item that does not belong to the one who pledges it; they are quite despised enough as it is, so they do all that they can to deal honestly with those who come to them. This man, I have no doubt, asks no questions over the ownership of the items he accepts. He shall be far harder to intimidate, I suspect."

"I shall remain outside, Raven." Madame Askew advises, quietly, "He has never seen me, and thus I think it safer to retain my anonymity."

He nods, and immediately she is gone, leaving us to approach the house, "How shall we deal with him, Thomas?" I am moving in an arena that I have never been obliged to navigate before. Even when I was at the Middle Temple, drinking and gambling with the best of them, I was never left in debt - though I think I earned a rather harsh reprimand from my father once or twice over my losses. Colldevall moves in circles that I have never encountered, and I am rather nervous that my inexperience shall cause us to falter.

"Do as you did with Northall, Richie - be silent and look menacing, I think. Our previous guises should hold for this purpose - and I see no reason to change. You shall continue to be Mr Blood, and I shall be Mr Lane." He is facing me, his back to the house, so no one who might be watching us can see what he is saying. I doubt that we are being observed, but it pays to be cautious. God, I wish that Tom Wyatt was here, he would be far better at this sort of thing than I.

We approach the building together, though I am slightly to Cromwell's rear, as though I am some sort of bodyguard. My knives are on more overt display, though I have opted not to summon my sword - for its rather exotic look is too distinctive to go unnoticed in a place such as this.

The door is unlocked, and we enter to find a large chamber before us, with a long counter at the far end. The man on the far side of that counter is short, bony and squints at us from beneath a thatch of dark, oily hair. The entire space smells horribly musty and thick, and I am not sure whether the odour emanates from the items that are piled up all around us, or from the man who presides over them.

"How may I be of assistance, Gentlemen?" he asks, his voice as thin and weak as his body.

"I am Mr Lane, Sir." Cromwell advises, urbanely, "I recently acquired a number of obligations from an Edmund Northall, who advises me that he has recently placed a silver cup in your hands, to be redeemed for the sum of six shillings. I wish to redeem it."

Colldevall squints even more, clearly assessing whether he can get away with demanding more than six shillings in return for the item.

"I should advise you that I do not take kindly to being fleeced, Mr Colldevall. Those who attempt to do so find themselves intimately introduced to the contents of the river, and are given the time it takes for them to drown to become acquainted with any fish that they might encounter therein."

He has not changed his tone - not remotely - but still his words seem to chill the air, and Colldevall shrinks rather. It could not be clearer that he is not a brave man. He makes his money through dishonesty, yes - but he clearly allows others to take the risks that are involved in the actual stealing of the items he handles. Cromwell is right - this man is no Lombard.

"I would be pleased to do so Mr Lane - truly. But Mr Northall has never redeemed any item that he has brought to me, so I assumed the same with the cup, and thus I sold it."

Cromwell's eyes narrow, and his expression becomes frightening, " _Sold_ it?"

I move slightly, thus allowing the hilts of my knives to become rather more visible, and scowl slightly.

"To a man who was looking for accoutrements for his company of players." Colldevall says, placatingly, "He was looking for old-looking items for a performance that he has written for Lord Sitwell of Epping."

"His name?" Cromwell asks, menacingly.

"Brownstone, I think it was - yes, Phineas Brownstone. A stupidly irritating man who thought that he was a gift from the Almighty. I sold it to him for three guineas - that keen he was on it. All because it was old." Colldevall shrugs, indifferently.

God, not him again. I remember him pestering me for rope while preparing pageants for the King's coronation. He claimed to have no money then, but now he is willing to pay three guineas: sixty three shillings for a mere cup? His patron must be most generous – and wealthy – to be willing to meet such a ridiculously high price for something so small.

"I shall investigate this statement, Mr Colldevall." Cromwell advises, coldly, "Be assured that, should I find you have played me false, I shall return."

"Of course, Mr Lane," Colldevall's voice is placatory and rather fearful, "I assure you that I have spoken truth."

"We shall see. I shall ensure that Mr Blood has secured a suitably sized stone - do not assume that you have escaped the river. That is entirely dependent upon whether or not I find the cup. I imagine that Mr Northall shall welcome the company."

The man swallows nervously: I had almost forgotten how intimidating Cromwell can be when he puts his mind to it. Without another word, Cromwell turns, and I follow him as he leaves, "Damn."

"To Essex, I suppose, Thomas?"

"To Essex." He agrees, crossly, "And thus we must start all over again. Again."

* * *

Any plans to deceive this Mr Brownstone are rather pointless, as he has met and spoken to me. Furthermore, I threatened him with imprisonment, and such threats tend to stick in the mind. Thus we shall travel as we are, and Madame Askew shall not accompany us. Instead, she shall spend some time with Cecil, as she has contacts who have access to documents that we cannot hope to identify. Perhaps they might aid her in locating that one piece of writing that shall aid us in ending any threat from Eligos.

"What do you know of Lord Sitwell?" I ask, for I know nothing of him, despite sharing properties in the same county.

"Little, I fear, Richie." Cromwell admits, "He has never come to Court, and has no political ambitions. It seems odd to me that he would retain a company of players, for most such groups are retained by men of much higher state. He is a Baron, and his lands are, to my knowledge, not sufficient to support expenditure to that degree."

"Unlike mine." I admit, with a mild smirk; then I frown, "It is most strange, though; for even though I am more than able to afford to support a company of players, I would never have thought to do so. Very few noblemen do, to my knowledge. Oxford seems to be the exception rather than the rule."

"Which begs the question," Cromwell adds, "Why does this man have one when he would not be expected to do so, or to be able to afford it?"

"Indeed so. Perhaps he has pretentions to be more than he is; or wishes to appear to be a patron of the arts in hope of being noticed by others of higher estate."

"As long as his players still have that cup, I have no interest in his motives at this point."

The ride shall take us most of the day, but I have taken great care to ensure that we do not pass that dreadful inn that served me tainted victuals, instead finding an altogether more palatable dinner at a better establishment just outside the town of Epping, before turning back on ourselves a way towards Theydon Bois, and to the Manor of Copthall, the seat of Lord Sitwell.

"What do you recall of this man Phineas Brownstone?" Cromwell asks as we dine upon a well made beef stew with excellent bread.

"Only that he annoyed me extensively while Paget and I were seeing to the final arrangements before the King's coronation procession." I admit, "He seemed quite convinced that his overly complicated presentation was of such importance that the entire affair would be quite ruined if he could not procure additional rope. I never did establish what his presentation was intended to represent."

"As I understand it," Cromwell says, "it was an allegory that featured a lion and a phoenix accompanying a lion cub - while the lion was lifted to heaven with a number of angels, the Phoenix was granted blessings, as was the cub."

"Not so much an allegory as a blunt instrument, then."

"Apparently written by the man himself. Thus I am most intrigued as to this apparent work that he is in the process of preparing."

I, on the other hand, am not.

We have not considered a suitable pretext for approaching Lord Sitwell, however, and now we must be creative - for why would the Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal arrive upon the doorstep of a minor Baron without one? With few options, we agree that we are undertaking a minor progress to review potential accommodation for the King's next excursion into the shires; which will take place next summer. That the man we are imposing upon has taken it upon himself to engage a company of players suggests that he shall be eager to believe he has captured the attention of the King.

Copthall turns out to be a rather squat building with little in terms of architectural merit to recommend it; and I am quite convinced that no one would agree that the King should come here. The approach is through rather unkempt parkland that has seen little management, while the frontage is a mass of glowering dark-red bricks. We have been observed, I note, as a man in singularly ostentatious livery comes hurrying out from a complex of buildings that must be the mews, and his expression as he appreciates the importance of the visitors is quite a picture; for we have both ensured that we are dressed according to our Court ranks, and all of the Nobility recognise the gold collar of esses: the chain of office of the Lord Chancellor of England.

The news of our arrival quickly reaches the Master of the House, who hastens out to greet us in great excitement - or, at least, he greets Cromwell, "My Lord Chancellor! Forgive me, I was not expecting so illustrious a visitor as your good self; please, allow me a brief time to ensure that accommodation is prepared for you and your companion."

Cromwell remains in the saddle, "My Companion happens to be the Lord Privy Seal, my Lord." His tone is remarkably unfriendly, as though he is a man not to be crossed, and Sitwell's expression is immediately one of consternation, for he has failed to recognise one of the five great officials of the Land. Given, however, that I am not well known outside of Court, I cannot blame him for not recognising me.

Stammering somewhat, Sitwell awaits us as we dismount, and leads us into the rather dark and gloomy building that serves as his house, "I am most delighted that his Majesty is looking to visit my fine home next summer, and indeed I can offer him much - for I have extensive grounds in which the Court may hunt - and a company of players to entertain them…"

"Players?" Cromwell turns to him, feigning interest.

"Oh, yes indeed, my Lords - a company of most excellent actors, and a man of great talent to write for them; I am quite convinced that he shall prove to be most enlightening. They are almost ready to put on a performance, and I shall see if they are willing to perform for you tonight - I take it you intend to stay? If so, I shall order rooms prepared for you…"

"Thank you, my Lord." Cromwell hastily interrupts, for fear that he shall not stop talking for the rest of the afternoon, "If it is not too much trouble, perhaps we may be permitted to survey your house for its suitability for the King and Court?"

"Of course you may, Gentlemen - I shall speak to Mr Brownstone and ask him to present a performance for us this very evening as we sup."

"That is very kind of you, my Lord, but I can assure you that you do not need to go to the trouble of…"

"It is no trouble at all my Lord." Sitwell interrupts delightedly, then looks across at one of his stewards, who nods, "Ah, your rooms are ready. I shall see you in two hours."

And he is gone - leaving us in the hallway. I turn to Cromwell, who has the grace to look at least mildly sheepish, "If this proves to be a night in hell, then I shall probably kill you."

"Probably?"

"Can you call your swords?"

"Good point."

* * *

The room in which I have been billeted is of remarkably poor aspect, and one that I would have no wish to use were I given a choice. If this is the best that can be offered, then I am quite certain that there is no circumstance in which we would willingly permit his Majesty to rest here.

While I am assured of that, at least; the true reason for our presence remains uninvestigated. This as-yet-unseen company of players shall perform for us tonight - and we can then obtain the cup from them before spending the night, offering bland platitudes on the morrow and departing, never to see this wretched place again.

When I return downstairs, I find that Cromwell is already in the hall, seated at a table that has been set for a meal, but awaits the victuals. Before us, a large stage has been constructed opposite the dais, and various men are busy with draped fabrics, ropes and all manner of strange items that bear little resemblance to any period of classical antiquity with which I am familiar, "What the hell are they doing?" I mutter, as I seat myself beside him.

"God alone knows." He admits, "I am told that it is intended to be a historical tragedy of some sort or another. In five acts."

" _Five_?" I feel myself start to sag, "We shall be here all night."

"I fear so. If what I have seen before me to this point is an indication of what is to come, then I am concerned that it shall not be to any great standard. I suspect the plays that I commissioned when we were seeking to persuade people to turn from the shackles of Rome shall be better presented - and I considered them to be truly ghastly: little better than the poorest of mummers after too many sups of the wassail cup."

"But they worked, did they not?"

"They did indeed." He sighs.

Perhaps I should not be surprised that we have been seated at the high table on the dais alongside our rather overexcited host. We are plied with the best dishes from his kitchens - which are either burned to charcoal, vaguely warm or even, in a few cases, hardly cooked at all. Thanks to my bout of poisoning, I am obliged to choose only that which is hideously burned - so much so, it seems, that it is impossible to know even what it is.

We are still seated with the victuals before us as our attention is drawn to the stage by a man who plays some form of reedy sounding fanfare liberally scattered with squeaks and cracked notes upon a cornett made of badly knotted and warped wood with a discoloured bone mouthpiece, "Gentlemen, and Ladies! Allow us to present to you a great tragedy, in five acts. A History of Britain presented to you by The Baron's Gentlemen and Mister Phineas Brownstone." He raises the blasted instrument again, only for a harshly whispered instruction from behind the closed drapes to cause him to fumble with the fabric in order to escape.

This does not look at all promising.

The curtains are drawn back to reveal five men seated in rather cramped fashion around a table too small for the purpose, while several others in mismatched liveries stand around them. One of them, God alone knows who he is intended to be, stands up, and turns those of us who are watching, "Good Vortigern! as peace doth bless our isle, and the loud din of war no more affrights us, and as my soul hath plac'd thee next herself, 'tis our desire that thou deny'st us not, that, which anon we crave thee to accept, for though most weighty be our proffer'd task, we trust thy goodness will not yet refuse, for we have always found thee soft by nature, and like the pelican, e'en with thy blood, ready to succour and relieve."

He declaims the words as though shouting them to the moon, and stands with legs apart and his hands on his hips. I turn to look at Cromwell, who is sitting rigidly in his chair, his eyes wide and staring rather. God help us, there are five acts of this - and the first speech has proved to be shockingly bad.

Alas, the standard does not improve - and it seems that King Vortigern is by far the worst, which is most embarrassing as he is being performed by Mr Brownstone. Jesu, he is terrible, "How stands it now - then am I but Protector? Oh! 'tis an attribute my soul abhors, to sovereignty a pander and a slave, that looks with wistful eyes upon the crown, and dares not touch it; o! I will none on't. Curse on those lords that did award me this, whose justice needs must force them keep the crown for those, who by descent, do most deserve it. By heav'ns, I'll pour my bitter vengeance down for this their slow and niggardly promotion. Yet as they did award and give me sway until the Prince Aurelius should return, then is it mine most sure! The Princes cannot from their cold graves return to take it from me! Their wish'd-for death is sure, yet do I dread - for here within, there lurks a messenger that cautions me, and fain would ha' me fear. What ho! Without I say! who attends there?"

Did he write this awful doggerel? God, he did - and we are trapped in this hall with it…

I have not seen Cromwell practise his remarkable skill to remain absolutely still for a very long time - but he is doing so. Even so, I can see his jaw is clenched, and he is staring ahead with an almost fixed expression. I often forget that he is, despite his origins, a remarkably cultured man; and now he is being obliged to sit and watch a ghastly performance that is as utterly unconvincing as it is unendurable.

The number of participants is extensive, and largely interchangeable; consequently it is hard to understand what is happening. As far as I can tell, the story proclaims the tale of Vortigern, who is offered half of England by his King for loyalty - only to plot to murder that King. What follows is still highly bemusing, but seems to involve sons escaping with a sister dressed as a man, an army being raised by two other sons - of the murdered King, I think - in Scotland. A battle ensues, and Vortigern is defeated. But, for a tragedy, there seem to be remarkably few deaths. Even Vortigern himself survives; though, perhaps that is a relief, for I dread to imagine what might happen were there a death scene.

That said, I would welcome one. Preferably upon the end of my sword.

The applause seems to me to be quite perfunctory, and possibly an expression of relief that the horrible performance is finally over. All of them are bowing, and that man Brownstone is to the fore, his smile deeply conceited, as he seems quite convinced that the applause is sincere. Somehow, I doubt it.

"Thank you all!" he says delightedly, "Thank you! Allow me to reward your kindness with a final speech, which I call, "On contemplating Westminster Abbey."

I don't know about Cromwell, but now I am sitting back, my eyes widening in dismay.

"O! my good lord how irksome passed the time,

While in yon porch I did wait your coming;

Yet as this chrystal arch, this bright heaven

Doth shine upon the emeral tipped wave,

And paints upon the deep each passing cloud;

E'en so the smallest and most gentle plant

That waves before the breath of thee sweet heaven,

To man gives food for contemplation

And shows how soon this blazing frame of youth

Must sink on Age's chilling icy bed,

And dwindle down to second nothingness;

Look but on yon clock those lanky fingers,

The toiling heralds of swift winged time,

Whose clapper wakens men from drowsy sleep;

Changing the dreary stillness of black night

To days first infancy, the blushing morn;

While blest Aurora rears her purple crest,

And tip-toe stands, shaking her golden hair,

Eager to visit the busy sons of men:

Her blazing journey ended, down she sinks,

And so I liken her to man's strange end.

Look on yon pile, under whose fretted roof,

So many kings have seized the precious gem

Of royalty, and sucked the courtiers

Lip laboured lies.

Where are ye now, dead alas and rotten;

O! my good lord, let us from hence away,

This spot doth smell too strong of royal dust

Throwing its lures to catch the minds of men;

Blowing in their ears the feverous blast

Of mirths, feasts, merriment, prosperity;

Till on a sudden grappling with their souls,

Thou knittest them at once in death eterne."

"Stop." Cromwell whispers, so only I can hear him, "For the love of God: stop."

Fortunately, Brownstone does.

"I shall ask him to write a new play - especially for his Majesty." Sitwell declares, still applauding enthusiastically, "He shall be most welcome here!"

Such a shame that he shall never come here. Not if we have any say in the matter.

Fortunately, Cromwell is a far better actor than the man on the stage, and he turns to Sitwell with a smile, "That is most considerate of you, my Lord. I should be very pleased to meet the playwright, if that is not too much trouble?"

"Not at all, my Lord," he enthuses, "you are welcome to speak to the players."

"Thank you." He rises, "Come, my Lord Rich; I think it would be useful if we interviewed the players, and it shall be done more quickly if we are both involved."

He moves away quickly, and I follow, "Forgive me for including you in this excursion. I did not see the cup on the stage, Richie; I am concerned as to where it might be. Were it not for that, I would have nothing to do with such tiresome fools as these."

"Then I am with you - and we shall find where they have concealed it."

* * *

The actors, for want of a better word, are busy removing their garish costumes and the paint from their faces in a chamber that is rather too small to accommodate them all. They squabble and bicker over what space they can secure, and seem to have no sign of that sense of brotherhood between those who are engaged in a higher purpose. It is a most unnerving sight, for they seem to be remarkably self-involved to a degree that is unmatched even by those upon the Council.

Brownstone does not appear to be among them, however, and I can only presume that he has taken a room for himself; he seems to be suitably absorbed in his supposed brilliance. Instead, I look around the room for some sign of either the cup, or something in which it might have been stowed, while Cromwell speaks to the throng of men who have spent the last three hours boring us to distraction; though his pretence that he was impressed by the performance is far more convincing than anything that we saw on the stage.

In each case, however, the answer is the same: the items they use on stage, particularly the valuable ones, are held only by Mr Brownstone, and he guards them like a lion guards its cubs. The last person who attempted to keep one - a silk kerchief that he had paid for himself - had been sent away with neither the pay owed to him nor his kerchief. If I disliked the man when I first came across him, then I loathe him now. I suspect that I might not have seen the change from the cost of that rope if I had not threatened him with a visit to Newgate.

"Do you want me to speak to him?" I ask, quietly, "I have encountered him previously, and my standing as Lord Privy Seal might cause him to grant us the cup out of reverence for the Crown."

"By all means." Cromwell agrees, "I fear that, should I speak to him, I might be obliged to strike him in the face for being a tiresome fool. I suspect that money is very close to his heart if all is true - so it may be necessary to use coercion to persuade him to relinquish the cup."

The room in which Mr Brownstone is ensconced is larger than the one assigned to his company, which does not surprise me at all. The man himself is seated upon a finely upholstered chair before a table upon which a looking glass stands, and is wiping the embarrassingly thick layer of paint from his face with a rough cloth that is quite caked with the vile concoction, "Mr Brownstone?"

He turns to me, and his expression is most strange, delighted recognition of the Lord Privy Seal, and also a rather arrogant squint that suggests he is looking at me as an interloper in his kingdom, "My Lord - I noted that you were present in our audience this evening; did you enjoy our play?"

"It was remarkable." I lie, trying as hard as I can to find some words that shall appear complimentary to the man listening to them, without actually suggesting that I enjoyed the awful experience. Does this man not realise that the King has always had access to the finest authors and poets? He could not hope to match the performances that I have seen at court, "I have rarely seen the like."

His smile widens, and I realise that his conceit has aided me, for he sees my comment as an absolute affirmation of his skill as both writer and actor. I just hope he does not ask me what I liked about it. I should be loath to admit that it was the moment that I discovered that the performance was at an end.

"Thank you, my Lord - I am delighted that you found us to your liking. How can I be of assistance to you?"

"We are undertaking a search, Mr Brownstone - and I think it possible that you can aid me."

"Of course - if I can do so, I would be happy to."

"I understand that you recently purchased a silver cup in London from a Mr Colldevall for the price of three guineas. It is an item of Royal provenance, and we are intending to return it to his Majesty."

He stares at me, and I wonder if he believes me or not.

"My Lord? The cup belongs to the King?"

My God - he _does_ have it…

"A cup of rather ancient aspect, made of hammered silver that is undamaged but for a slight dent." I prompt.

He stammers briefly, and I wonder what he is attempting to say, until he finally finds the words, "Forgive me, my Lord - we did have it, I procured it only a very short time ago for use in a production of Sophocles's _Antigone_ that we have performed in a number of great houses over the last few years. But it was lost to us…"

" _Lost_?" My response is one of horror - after all of this, it has been lost again?

"Alas, yes - we were performing in the house of the Earl of Berkshire, Lord Giffard; a rather unappreciative crowd, I fear. Lord Giffard himself was most interested in the cup - so I assumed that he had taken it, and one cannot accuse a noble of theft, can one?"

"Indeed no." I agree, attempting as best I can to sound sympathetic, when I am instead infuriated. Each time we think that we have found the blasted thing, we find that we have not - and we must start from scratch. Over and over again.

Cromwell sighs at the news, "So, we have travelled out to Essex, and sat through possibly the worst theatrical performance in Christendom, all to find that we must now travel across London and out to the west, in hopes of finding this blasted cup. It is as though it does not wish to be found."

"But find it, we must." I remind him, "Come, there is little that we can do tonight. We shall depart on the morrow, and return to Grant's Place before making our way out to find this Earl Giffard. I have a vile concoction to drink - and the fact that I have been obliged to brew it myself does not make the prospect any easier to contemplate. Today has been a singular annoyance."

He smiles, "Then I shall leave you to your ongoing disappointment, Richie. Tomorrow is another day - and I hope that it shall be a more worthwhile one than this has been."

Amen to that.

* * *

 **A/N:** Just a couple of explanatory notes:

Lombards were the predecessors to modern Pawnbrokers - so called because they generally came from the area of Lombardy - part of what is now northern Italy. They were very much outsiders, and tended to operate from the same areas - in London, that was Lombard Street, though the original Lombards after which it was name were goldsmiths. Given that no one trusted them, they did indeed tend to be very picky about the people they dealt with, and tried very hard to avoid handling stolen goods. To this day, Lombard Street remains part of the financial district of London around the Bank of England in Threadneedle Street.

I'm very grateful not to have to take the credit for the horrendous speeches from Brownstone's 'Plays', as they were originally written by William Henry Ireland, a man who wrote a phenomenal amount of fake Shakespeare documents in the eighteenth century, and is one of the foundations upon which the infamous 'Shakespeare Authorship Question' is built. _Vortigern and Rowena_ was his attempt to create an 'undiscovered' Shakespeare play - which opened, and closed, on 2 April 1796; and, for very good reasons (largely relating to how crappy it was), didn't see the light of day again until the Pembroke Players at Pembroke College, Cambridge revived it, and played it entirely for laughs, in 2008.

If you want to hear the sound of a Cornett, have a watch of anything featuring Bruce Dickey on YouTube - he's one of the best modern players around - though his videos use the Italian name 'Cornetto'. As that's also a make of ice cream cone, I've stuck to the English spelling!


	24. The Horrible Conspiracy

Chapter Twenty-Four

 _The Horrible Conspiracy_

Our return to Grant's Place is a rather dismal affair, as the weather has broken again, and we are obliged to ride through thick misty rain that soaks into our cloaks and bonnets with a degree of determination that I thought impossible. The victuals that were set before us to break our fasts this morning were so utterly unappealing that I did little more than pick at the shockingly burned bread and sup at some small ale that was almost turning. For a man who can afford a company of players, Lord Sitwell seems remarkably unable to keep a decent table.

Matters improve somewhat as we approach the edge of London, as the weather clears and we find a small inn that serves an excellent haunch of beef that we linger over - partly because it is so welcome after the appalling meals at Copthall, but mostly to give our wet cloaks time to become at least halfway dry.

"I hope that William has been keeping himself apprised of matters at Court." Cromwell muses, as he stretches his legs out towards the small fire that is most welcome to us given how drenched we are, "I deeply dislike being so far from the centre at the best of times, but at present, I am concerned that the reason for our struggles to find this wretched cup are allied to manoeuvrings that I cannot see, for I am not present."

"I take it your thoughts accord with mine?" I know he is wondering what Northumberland is doing in our absence.

"I suspect so. Given the importance of the cup to prevent that which we fear, I am wondering if the overtures to the younger son are being made in harness with a wider conspiracy."

Oh God - not again; I thought we had escaped that sort of thing when we broke the alliance between Zaebos and the Boleyns. It appears not, then.

"An alliance of two Dukes, then." I mumble, rather dismayed at the thought.

To our relief, Cecil has indeed been keeping careful watch not only over the ongoing search for the cup and the document that shall reveal how it is used, but also over matters at Court - which has been eased somewhat by the aid of Somerset sending him papers via John, who has dispatched them to Grant's Place courtesy of Baxter - who has also added some notes in relation to Bull's surreptitious work to protect the Court from demonic incursions in our absence.

"It seems that Ambrose Dudley is making an excellent job of undermining his father's conspiracies, Richie." Cromwell reports from the papers that Cecil has handed him, "And he has even done so as though acting in all innocence, for he has introduced Hal to tennis, a sport in which he is proving to have inherited his father's skill. The boy is quite enamoured of his new game, and the fact that he is so capable has also ensured that he has not tired of it in a short time as he has with other distractions. Additionally, they ride together most mornings - along carefully chosen routes that are sufficiently testing to give Hal cause to think that he is a magnificently able rider, but no so challenging that he is obliged to find that he is not as good as he thinks he is."

"And Northumberland's view?" I ask, intrigued in a rather spiteful manner - I am always pleased when the elder Dudley is discomfited.

"He cannot complain - for his son has befriended the young Prince to a degree that he himself cannot hope to match, for he is too old. That Ambrose's actions have largely deprived him of Hal's ear is, to him at least, an unfortunate side effect - and he waits for the Prince to grow bored, and become more open to whisperings and plots again."

"Do you think it likely?" Cecil asks, worriedly.

"Not at present," Cromwell smiles, "Ambrose is a most gifted sportsman, and he has a wide range of other sports and games that he can turn to should Hal tire of tennis. The youth admires him greatly for his prowess - so I suspect that Northumberland shall be obliged to ban his son from Hal's presence to make any progress, which shall almost certainly turn Hal against him. For now, he is hobbled."

"But we must take care that he does not look to other means to achieve his ends." I add, for I have not forgotten that horrible vision of him dressed in scarlet and raising Somerset's coronet to his head as the Seymour sigil burned.

"Indeed we must not - and Somerset is aware of that, as is the Regent. Neither she nor Somerset have accepted any approach from individuals wishing to serve them. Only those who have served both faithfully for many years are now employed in their households, and that includes the cooks - while only long-standing friends of the family hold senior court positions for the time being."

"That is a risky approach in other ways, though." Cecil muses, "Those who seek preferment through employment in the royal households shall be most put out that they are only allowing those that they already employ to serve them in the Palaces."

"Once we have negated the threat of a plot, I am sure that matters on that front shall resolve - but if it becomes clear that discontent is growing more overt, we shall speak to the Regent and to Somerset."

"I have also made some enquiries into the affairs of the Earl of Berkshire." Cecil continues, "He has never come to Court, being a man of little political talent, and almost no skill at all in managing his estates. He is in a state of constant debt, and thus has been obliged to sell much of his lands to cover them. That said, he is known for his expensive tastes, and his rather overblown opinion of himself, for the Giffard family is one of the oldest in England."

"Does Giffard have any claim to a crown?" I ask, for there are so many cadet branches of House Plantagenet that it is almost impossible to say these days who does, and who does not.

"None that any have been able to determine. The Giffards are like the Dymokes - an ancient family with no royal blood in their veins. Unlike the Dymokes, however, the Giffards have no ceremonial function to perform, and have largely stagnated in the countryside. The Earl's father seemed most content with this, and sought to prop up his ailing estates through an advantageous marriage to a wealthy merchant's daughter; but such pragmatism seems not to have been inherited by the son. He is not wedded, despite being near-on twenty years of age - and instead surrounds himself with a crowd of young men who serve only to assist him in wasting large sums of money."

"If he has no claim, does he have pretensions?" Cromwell asks, keenly.

"That, we could not determine." Cecil admits, "Though it is worth noting that he has hosted Northumberland on more than one occasion. It could, however, be said that this was solely to discuss the purchases of a number of small manors in the County, for they are now held by Dudley."

An innocuous reason for dealing with one another, then. But nonetheless, it seems most suspicious, and certainly worth investigating.

Our departure the next morning is rather more careful than it was to Essex. As we are now more hopeful of finding the cup, and rather concerned that there shall be more resistance to our doing so than we have yet encountered, both Cromwell and I are well armed, with both blades, several knives and - in Cromwell's case, at least - loaded pistols. I am hopeful that we shall find ourselves over-prepared, but I have learned from long experience that there is no such thing.

As the journey shall take most of the day, we shall stop at our favourite inn on the route to Hampton Court to dine, and spend the night at the Eagle and Child in Windsor, as we did on the way back from the summer progress, and thus we do not press the horses. After yesterday's rain, the weather has warmed a little, and the early autumn sun illuminates the leaves that are just on the turn, the trees preparing to crown themselves in gold awhile before they are stripped by the storms of winter to await the new growth of spring.

"Is it worth repeating the pretext we used with Sitwell?" I ask, as the horses plod along, "I assume that, if he is indeed in league with Northumberland, he shall not accept such a story."

"As do I." Cromwell agrees, "I fear we shall have no option but to arrive upon his doorstep and demand the cup - though we can claim that it is on behalf of the Regent, for she is known to have sympathies with Rome, and thus would revere relics to a degree that I do not."

"Perhaps, but she is also known for her kindness and gentility - and I do not think any would believe that she would dispatch you on such a mission, for to do so looks spiteful towards you, and that is a trait that she has never shown at any time."

"True - but I am also her most trusted Minister, so she would ask it of me knowing that I would do it, for that is a reputation that I earned through long service to her late husband."

Ah yes - regardless of his behaviour towards his Lord Chancellor, King Henry knew that, if he asked it of Cromwell, it would be done. All are aware of that, and it would explain why the Regent has asked a man of known reformist principles to retrieve a supposedly sacred relic of papist origin.

We could speculate, I suppose, upon the possible machinations of the Duke of Northumberland; but to do so is pointless as all that we truly know is that he is attempting to cultivate the good graces of the young Prince Hal. As we have the ear of the King, and he cannot disrupt that, he seeks power elsewhere - after all, even if he does not rule, Henry the younger shall still be a most useful ally to an ambitious courtier.

Instead we spend the journey reminiscing over times past. The ghastly errors that I made in my early years as a Second have been rendered by the passage of time into foolish mishaps that are now more amusing than distressing - and we recall the frightening flight from the Priory in Richmond Park as something of a jape, even though I know that I was terrified at the time.

By evening, we are supping at the Eagle and Child, and grateful for a warm fire, as the evening is growing rather chill despite the earliness of the season. The mutton is served to us in a thick stew that is most welcome, particularly to obliterate the vile taste of that damned infusion.

Cromwell seems quite distracted, and I look at him, "What is it, Thomas?"

He looks startled for a moment, then shakes his head briskly, "It is of no moment, Richie. I am tired, I fear; and such a state always causes me to brood far more than I should. I was thinking of times past, when my wife and daughters still lived, and Wolsey oversaw my work. Is it not strange how we think when we are so young? I saw myself as indestructible, and immortal; for I had emerged from the House with a degree of skill that I never thought a man such as I should possess - even after the loss of Joachim, for it seems that taught me nothing but to mourn the loss of a friend. The Sweat robbed me of that, as did the Boleyns and Howards. In some ways, I dread to imagine what kind of man I might have become had I not been injured, and you had not been required to aid me that night in Hampton Court."

"I think I have said it more times than I can count," I admit, "but that night saved more than your life; it saved mine, and my very soul, I think. I did not appreciate what a treasure it is to be trusted - for none had ever trusted me, and with good reason, too. Now that I have it, I could not endure to lose it, for I have still gained all that I could ever have wanted in life, but I have not shattered my soul in doing so."

I think I am starting to babble again, for I am nervous. Cromwell does not normally speak so; and I am fearful that the spectre of his retirement has arisen once more. I should not begrudge him a time of rest, nor the opportunity to share all that he has learned with the young men that shall follow him; but nonetheless, I do not want him to go, for I must stay behind.

Cromwell sighs, "Forgive me, I am being most dull this evening. Perhaps a good night's sleep shall aid me. Until tomorrow?"

I nod as he retires, but my mood remains most poor and I sit where I am, lost in the light from the fire.

* * *

Despite a dose of that vile infusion, my sleep is troubled by dreams of war and death, and once more I see horrors that I could never have imagined. When I wake, I am at least grateful that the red knight has not taken it upon himself to visit me as I toiled in the midst of the nightmares.

Cromwell's mood seems rather improved for his night's rest, however, so I speak nothing of my own travails, and instead we break our fasts quickly, and depart. If luck is with us, we shall be at the Giffard residence by midmorning, where we can secure the cup and return to spend the night at Windsor, before returning to Hampton Court. Such a simple plan - but I am quite certain, as is Cromwell, that it shall not be even as close to as easy as that. Such things never seem to be.

At least the weather is bright, which is some compensation for the altogether gloomier aspect of the great house that is named after the family - Giffard Height. Despite its name, it is set in a rather chill river valley far from any elevation, and rises from what must once have been a fortified manor house, though most of the walls seem ruinous now, and the place resembles Lamashtu's Priory far too closely for my liking. Even the approach is unnerving, for the parkland has been left to grow even more wild than that of Copthall, as though a deliberate act rather than one of mere idleness on the part of the Lord. If I spend the entire ride along it convinced that we are to be ambushed, then I cannot imagine how much more Cromwell feels it, for he has always been far more attuned to danger than I.

The young Earl is outside when we approach the frontage of the house, clearly preparing to ride out with several companions who seem rather ostentatiously dressed for an excursion upon horseback. While the royal Court would dress so, for it was expected by the late King, it seems most bizarre to see men making ready to embark upon a hunt while dressed as though they are Maying.

All of them look up at us, and the atmosphere seems to chill quite markedly - though it is unlikely that any of these men know who we are, for I have never seen any of them presented at Court. Even though I do not know Giffard's face, I would have heard his name announced, but I have not. He is, presumably, the one dressed in scarlet velvet who urges his horse forward to meet us, "What is your business here?"

"Martin Giffard, I presume?" Cromwell asks, his tone frosty at such discourtesy, "I am his Grace the Earl of Essex, and his Majesty's Lord Chancellor. I have been dispatched from Court to seek out a certain item of Royal provenance which has been removed from the Treasury. I believe it is currently in your possession."

Fortunately, Giffard realises who is addressing him, and his manner improves at once, though there is still something about him that I find rather unnerving, "Forgive me, your Grace - we were about to depart upon the hunt, but if there is something within this house that you are seeking, please enter and we shall discuss the matter; for I am not aware of anything in my possession that might have come from the Royal Treasury."

He turns his horse and trots away from us, to engage in a whispered conversation with his companions that seems rather animated, before summoning a groom and having the horses led back to the mews. As the other youths return to the house, Giffard redirects his attention back to us, "Come inside, I shall ask the grooms to take care of your horses."

I am now most grateful for the heavy cloak that I am wearing, for, like Cromwell's it conceals the sword that is currently at my waist. Even as I enter that low-built, rather unpleasantly damp building, I am quite convinced that the occupants plan to ensure that we shall not leave it. Giffard seems nervous, almost febrile, and that in itself is enough to suggest that he fears us, and knows why we have come.

"What is this item that you seek, my Lord?" he asks, waving away a steward, "Wine, you fool - fetch some wine!"

"Something that the Regent is most keen to retrieve, your Grace." Cromwell advises, blandly, "A silver cup of ancient aspect, that is remarkably undamaged but for a slight dent."

He has it - I can see it in his face, for his eyes widen for a moment; but he quickly shakes his head, "I have not heard of such an item, my Lord - there is little of value in this house these days, and I can assure you that an item of such rarity would not go unnoticed."

"Then you shall not mind if I undertake a search?"

"Is my word not sufficient?"

"Not if I am obliged to account for myself to the Regent." Suddenly, Cromwell's tone is dreadfully cold.

Giffard stares at us both, his eyes flicking between us fearfully, but then he turns, "If you could just come through to the Hall, my Lords, I shall ask one of my retainers to bring it to us." He sounds rather defeated - as though his intention to keep the cup from us has failed.

"As you wish." Cromwell consents, and we follow him into what must once have been a very fine hall, its magnificent hammer-beam roof high above our heads. The rest of it, however, is in a very poor state of repair, with cracked panelling and threadbare tapestries. Even the rushes spread out on the floor have not been changed in longer than I can bear to imagine if the mould on some of the stems is anything to go by.

"I shall speak to my Retainer," Giffard announces, "If you could kindly wait here." He closes the door, and is gone.

"He's gone to get his colleagues, hasn't he?" I mutter to Cromwell.

"Indeed he has."

"I have only fought men once before." I fret, "And that was the worst experience I can remember. Is there any chance we can talk our way out of this?"

"I doubt it. But there is always hope." Cromwell smiles, a little sadly, "I imagine they consider numbers and youth to be advantages."

"In my case, they might well be."

"Aim to use the flat of your blade, and the hilt as a bludgeon." He suggests, "I shall do likewise where I can - for I suspect these young men are foolish rather than dangerous. Besides, bodies are too difficult to explain." He unclasps his cloak, but leaves it across his shoulders for the time being to conceal his swords.

Then the door opens, and we turn, ready for whatever may come.

* * *

Gifford's expression is extremely nervous, and I suspect he has never fought anyone to the death. Far from it, in fact. Judging by the way he is holding his sword, it is unlikely that he has even thought to put any worthwhile time into practising his fencing. The men behind him, on the other hand, seem altogether more competent - though I have no doubt that they are no match for Cromwell, even though he is so much older than they.

"I don't take kindly to people arriving unannounced." Giffard, says, though his voice shakes so much that it is hard to believe that there is even a hint of threat in his words, "Asking for things that are none of their concern."

If nothing else, that confirms it. He has that cup - he must have…

"And you intend to murder the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Privy Seal?" Cromwell asks, though I note from his tone that he is deliberately sounding nervous, as though he has no experience of violence or fighting.

"This county is wealthy, my Lord." Giffard has fallen for it - his voice is firmer now, for he believes himself to have the upper hand, "Thus we have a terrible problem with banditry - I'm sure you understand the difficulties we face in these parts."

One of the men to the rear has locked the door, thus preventing our escape - or, at least, that is what they think. I am sure that it shall prove equally efficacious in preventing theirs once they realise the mistake that they have made.

I remain behind Cromwell, and follow him as he moves into the centre of the hall. The benches and tables have been set to the side, and thus there is ample room for swordplay - but still he keeps the weapons out of sight, and pretends that we have become entrapped and have no idea how to escape.

"All I ask is that you grant us the cup. We shall then depart, and there shall be no more spoken of this. Let us leave, and you shall not feel the weight of royal displeasure, I can assure you." God above, he really does sound as though he is intimidated by this poltroon. Phineas Brownstone would be scandalised to be so outdone.

"You shall have nothing from me, Lord Cromwell; instead, your corpse, and that of your companion, shall be found in the parkland, and I shall claim that you never reached my door. Some unfortunate peasant shall be found with your valuables, and shall hang for killing you, and thus indeed, there shall be no more spoken of it."

Cromwell sighs, "Alas, Mr Rich, it seems that you are still no more known than you have ever been."

Giffard pauses, for Cromwell no longer sounds unnerved. Far from it, in fact.

"Indeed so, my Lord. I find my lack of celebrity most tiresome; I think, if you are in agreement, that we should teach these impolite young colts some manners."

"I am most definitely in agreement." Cromwell smiles, and shrugs off his cloak, before drawing his two magnificent raven blades. I am pleased to do likewise, and draw Shadowsight from its sheath. That is, after all, its name - and I am no longer fearful of thinking of it so.

If I was nervous that the man who locked the door would lose his nerve and attempt to flee, I am pleased to find that I am wrong. Instead, they draw weapons, and move into the room. There are five of them, and two of us - five blades to three. Given that Cromwell once fought down five revenants single-handedly, I am quite convinced that the odds are most definitely in our favour.

It is no surprise to me that Giffard hangs back as his fellows come forth to fight us, for he seems more than content to allow others to do his fighting for him, until he feels secure that we are overpowered. Then, I am quite sure, he shall find his nerve again. The man whom I observed locking the door is approaching me with a rather unpleasant smile, which pleases me, for once I have felled him, I shall be able to retrieve the key. The others seem quite content to attempt to take the life of the Lord Chancellor - quite a boast, I'm sure - but he calmly steps back from them, swords held low, to ensure that he has sufficient space to swing the blades without risk of injuring me.

While my own assailant is far younger than I, his speed is balanced by inexperience, for he is no more practised in fighting for his very life than Giffard appears to be. As I have done so many times, I am more than ready for him, and he is dismayed to find his attacks turned aside, over and over again, as I match him stroke for stroke. I have battled raveners, and revenants, and a demon huntress, so this young fool is little challenge as long as I do not become overconfident. Indeed, the overconfidence is his, and is made worse by his increasing anger at my failure to be easily overcome. Finally, he swings his blade out in such a wide sweep that I am able to dodge the cut, and easily step forth to bring my hilt down upon his head, felling him like an oak.

I pause only to retrieve the key from his doublet, which I hastily pocket, for one of the others has now turned away from the furious battle with Cromwell, and is keen to take on an easier target. My God - even now, he has lost none of his skill; despite being a little slower, and stiffer, than once he was, his experience is far greater than any that the youths can bring to the table, and thus he keeps them easily at bay. I wish I had the time to watch him, but instead I must raise my own blade again, and fight off my new assailant. He is more experienced than the one I have just felled, but still he has fought only to practise, or to brawl. He has no more fought for his life than any of the other men in the room, and he is no more able to get through my defences than the one before him. Again, he assumes that my strike with the hilt was no more than luck, and is soon proved wrong. Two down.

I look up again to see that one of the young men has stumbled away from Cromwell, clasping at his forearm, his sword abandoned upon the ground nearby. Without hesitation, I pick it up, and turn to see whether I am needed.

I am not.

Giffard is staring at us in horror now, for Cromwell has disarmed the last of the youths, and glares at him like an angry father, before grabbing his arm and turning him around to apply six sharp slaps to the boy's posterior with the flat of his sword, "Behave like a child, and be treated like one! This is your punishment for being a wastrel!" I am quite surprised that he does not demand the boy run home to his mother - but he does not.

His expression dangerous now, that same dreadful glare upon his face that I recall when he interrogated George Boleyn, Cromwell turns to Giffard, who is standing alongside a man with a wounded forearm, a man with a sore arse, and two men on the floor with dented heads, "As I said." He says, horribly coldly, "I have come for the cup at the express command of Her Majesty the Queen Regent. To refuse me, is to refuse her, and to refuse the King."

To my surprise, and disgust, a wet stain appears across Gifford's upper hose as he pisses himself in fear, "I…I…"

"Cowardice shall not save you, Martin Giffard."

Then the idiot's eyes roll up, and he falls to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

Giffard's servants are busy tending to the wounded, while Cromwell sits alongside the couch upon which we have rested Giffard himself as he recovers from his faint. His manservant has kindly changed his hose, thank God.

He wakes after only a few more minutes, fortunately, and looks up at the Lord Chancellor in something very close to panic.

"Rest easy, boy." He says, rather more kindly than before, "I shall not harm you. You have something I need. As I said in the hall, hand it over, and we shall depart. No more shall be spoken of in relation to this matter."

"God, you can fight." He says, weakly.

"As I said," Cromwell leans in, " _No more shall be spoken of in relation to this matter_."

Giffard swallows nervously, and nods, "Yes, my Lord."

"I came for the cup that I described. I am told it was last seen in this house following a performance no more than a few days ago by Baron Sitwell's Gentlemen. A performance of Sophocles's _Antigone_ , I am told."

"Yes - they were here, for I had guests. God, they were worse than village mummers…"

"Of that, I am more than aware." Cromwell advises him, dryly.

"One of the men at the table was most interested in a silver cup that they had with them, and he was keen to see it while we were between acts; so it was brought to him."

"Who was he?"

"A Mr James Drayton, Sir - an honourable man of good connections. I believe he is a Liveryman of the Guild of Drapers, and is well regarded in the City."

"Drayton?" I look at Cromwell, who looks back at me, for the name is not familiar, and I have little option but to shrug.

"Did he return the cup?" Cromwell turns back to Giffard.

"He did, my Lord - or at least it was present when the next act commenced. I assumed that it had been packed up when the company departed; but the following morning, I noticed Mr Drayton had it in his possession, and seemed most pleased to have retained it."

"You are sure of that?"

"Absolutely sure, my Lord. If I had it, then I promise you it would be in your hands."

Cromwell leans in again, rather menacingly, "If I find that you have played me false…"

"I have not, my Lord - I swear it! I truly swear it!" Giffard whines, fretfully, "He had the cup, and he took it with him when he left - he must have done, for he was so pleased that he had it, I cannot believe that he would have left it behind."

"Very well." Cromwell stands up, and retrieves his gauntlets, "I shall accept your words as truth. Know, however, that, should I find that you have lied to me, I shall return, and this time, you shall die."

Giffard whimpers, but remains where he is.

"And, do not forget: When I depart, this shall not be spoken of again. To anyone. Is that understood? If I discover that you have spoken - and believe me, I _shall_ \- then as I have already said. I shall return, and you shall die."

I know full well that he shall do no such thing - but Giffard does not, and he nods, tearfully. As Cromwell stands, one of the servants hastily flees to the mews to seek the return of our horses, which are soon ready to depart, and I am most relieved to get away from that horrible hall.

"Drayton." Cromwell mutters, as we ride, "Drayton, Drayton, Drayton…where have I heard that name before?"

"A Liveryman with the Drapers Company, Thomas. You may have had business dealings with him, for you had business interests in the cloth trade at one time, did you not?"

He nods, "That is true - though it has been several years since I sold off the last of my interests in the business; but I do not think it to be that." He sighs, "Damnation - I cannot _remember_."

Were I not so nervous about his intentions to retire, I think I would make a joke about age and memory loss. But I am, so I do not.

We ride on in silence for a while, "For a conspiracy to raise a demon, this man seems to be of remarkably low estate, does he not?" Cromwell comments, "Eligos is known for consorting only with those of noble lineage, according to _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_."

"Then he is consorting with more highly placed men."

"It would seem likely - but who?"

"I would say Northumberland, but I cannot fathom a connection between a Duke and a Draper." I admit.

"Nor can I," Cromwell sighs, "And so we must go back to London, and hope that we can find him there. At least we shall have records of his whereabouts if he is a Liveryman."

We fall silent again, and the horses plod on eastwards. Oddly, the name Drayton is lurking in my mind, too - for now that I have had time to think upon it, I am also sure that I have heard it before; and I have never been involved in the cloth trade. A relative of someone, perhaps? Yes - that seems possible, but I cannot for the life of me remember who it might be.

"I shall set Madame Askew to work upon it, I think." Cromwell sighs, "We have been away from court now for nearly a week and I am concerned that we have been away for too long. Somerset is sensible, as is her Majesty - but they are alone against a faction that seeks to control the King if they can, and they are but two. Better, I think, if we return to stand with them."

There seems to be little point in disagreeing, for he is right. We are doing no good chasing back and forth across London for something that continually eludes us, so it seems wisest to return to Hampton Court and discuss what we have learned - such as it is - with the Regent and Somerset. As we are already on the road that shall take us there, for we must pass it in order to continue to London, it is a simple matter to adjust our plans, and I am back in my regular quarters by midday, much to John's dismay, as he has chosen my period of absence to get almost the entire contents of my closets laundered, and there are no clean clothes for me to change into.

Once again, I remember how unpleasant it was when I was so desperate to find Red Fire - for I am in that same quandary now. The cup remains missing, even though we know who held it last, and I have no choice but to sit uselessly at Court and wait for others to find it.

And then, if we ever do, I still have to work out how to use it.

* * *

The Regent smiles at my crestfallen expression, "I appreciate that this is most hard for you both - for I remember how you struggled to locate Red Fire; but it presented itself to you in the end, did it not? Perhaps the cup shall do the same."

"I wish that were so, Majesty." Cromwell admits, tiredly, "But I doubt that things shall happen the same way twice - that has not been so in my experience."

"You do, at least, know who held the cup last, however." Somerset adds, intrigued, "That is something."

"I have already advised our agent of the identity of our missing Draper." I add, "She shall seek out his whereabouts, and we can then go and speak to him. If he was so keen to get hold of the cup, I doubt that he has sold it on or lost it. He must have it."

"The next question, of course," Cromwell muses, "Is what he intends to do with it. He seemed most intent upon it, from what Giffard told us, and that does not suggest an impulsive move - it is as though he knew that it would be there. Most people do not tend to notice small items used by actors in a play - much less steal them."

"In that case, let us see what your agent discovers," the Queen advises, "If she can locate this man, then I give you both leave to visit and interview him. If he has the cup, then I authorise you to claim it on behalf of the Crown, for it was in the possession of a King of England, and thus belongs to the Royal Treasury."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell rises and bows, "We shall do that as soon as we are informed of this man's whereabouts. Given that he is a Liveryman, I do not anticipate that taking particularly long."

"You shall find this cup, gentlemen." She smiles, kindly, "I have every faith in you."

I am glad that someone does.


	25. Route to Truth

Chapter Twenty-Five

 _Route to Truth_

I am glad to be back at my desk, I must admit, for much work has accumulated in my absence that I am keen to clear. Griffin and Wriothesley have been working to keep that pile to a minimum, as has John Dudley, but nonetheless there are certain items that must be dealt with by me. Besides, I am sure that the heap of papers on Cromwell's desk shall be far larger.

Griffin has nothing to report to me, but is genial and offers to assist me with any outstanding papers; while Wriothesley seems almost hostile. As he has resented my presence in the office chambers at any palace where there is no separate chamber for me, I am not surprised, though I do notice that that awful sense of nervous discomfort I feel in his company is most conspicuous by its absence. I have never understood why I have found him so intimidating, but at present he is just a sour face in a room, and that is a relief that I am happy to embrace.

By midday, I have brought the number of papers back down to a reasonable amount, and I depart in search of some dinner in the Hall. Their Majesties are present today, and thus people are on their best behaviour; while the selection of dishes for those of us at the higher placed tables are rather more extensive. Queen Jane prefers to dine in private wherever possible, as her son is still becoming accustomed to being on public display after years of being protected from such scrutiny. Thus her visits to the Hall for meals are slowly becoming more frequent - but are still limited to a few days each week.

Many of those present shall remain today, I think; for there is a small consort of musicians present to entertain the royal family, so I have no doubt that there shall be some dancing this afternoon once the tables have been cleared. My absolute incompetence as a dancer ensures that I shall not be one of them - even more than my pressing work in the offices. As Cromwell has not joined us to dine, I assemble a chunk of cheese and some slices of bread in a napkin and take it back to him. He is, as always, deeply engrossed in the papers before him, and had not even noticed that he was hungry, "Thank you for this, Richie. I had lost track of the time."

He pours us each a glass of sack before sitting down to make a brief meal of the bread and cheese, "This reminds me of the first meal we shared together - bread and cheese with a glass of sack. You had not yet decided whether or not to become my Second, for you knew nothing of my mission."

"A decision I have never regretted, Thomas." I add, "Well, not _entirely_ never regretted. I think there were a few moments of utter panic when I wondered what on earth I had done. Usually when I had managed to get myself into danger in some fashion. I suspect that I would have been more filled with regrets had I not turned back to you after my faith in myself was so crushed by my helplessness when you were possessed by that malevolence." My smile falters at that, for I still, to this day, feel a sense of horror that I came so close to failing to aid him - and it was only thanks to Wolsey that he was not lost forever.

"I have not forgotten that." Cromwell admits, "As though I could - but even if you could not enter that place of misery to find me, you remained at my side, and were there when I returned. You, and Tom, were the most welcome sight I could have imagined upon waking from the horrors forced upon me by that malevolence; nothing, and no one, could have made me feel safer and more assured that I was truly home again." He sits back, "To return to the present - have you noticed anything of concern in relation to my Lord Northumberland?"

I sit and think for a moment. I have not had the opportunity to meet with Ambrose yet, and we have not yet attended a council meeting, so I have not seen his father. As I have no other friends at Court - well, none of any value to our mission, at least - I have not heard rumours. Certainly there were none at the dinner tables, and I had failed to notice whether Northumberland was in the hall. God, my head must be full of straw!

"No, alas, I have not - but I have been back only a day, and I am not so well acquainted with the rumour-mill in the palaces as you are, Thomas."

He sighs, "Then we are both blind, for I have had no more success than you. He is at Court, but I have not heard any suggestion that he is acting in any manner at all that is conspiratorial. He seems even to have given up attempting to subvert Prince Henry - though I have heard that his friendship with Ambrose is apparently working wonders for the boy's temperament."

"Which might explain Northumberland's withdrawal?" I offer, hopefully. It would be a good thing if we could persuade Dudley to set that sort of nonsense aside and become a more trustworthy member of the Council.

"I think so - though I am not convinced that it has stopped him entirely." Cromwell admits, "Unless I can truly verify that he has indeed decided that conspiracy shall aid him less than active and loyal service, I shall assume still that he is conspiring."

"But with whom?" I ask, at once, "We have no evidence that he has formed any factional connections with any other Courtier, and it is nigh-on impossible to conspire alone."

"That, Richie, is the sticking point." He admits, "I am no more certain of that than you are. We shall have to wait for Madame Askew to locate our missing Draper."

* * *

The council meeting is no more helpful, for Northumberland seems to have shifted from being hostile and unfriendly to almost frighteningly eager in his wish to be a useful and worthwhile councillor. Part of me hopes that Ambrose's theft of his influence over Prince Hal has awoken him to the foolishness of his behaviour - but I know that I would be deceiving myself. If only my sword's warnings did not affect me so brutally - it might be helpful at this juncture to know what he is planning; but alas, I cannot risk the headache and fever that almost invariably follows. Worse, I might even faint at the council table and send people into a panic that I have caught some dread contagion.

There are no arguments, nor is there any posturing; instead we achieve a great deal more than we used to - for no one objects that Parliament must consider certain aspects of our plans, nor does anyone complain over the proposed religious settlement. That said, it has rather stalled in Parliament, for those on both sides who refuse to acknowledge the view of their opponents are equally stubborn over the reality that the King and Regent consider it to be absolutely none of their business who believes what as long as they are loyal Englishmen. Given the insularity of the people of our little nation, I have no doubt that the loyalty of our Catholic subjects to England comes ahead even of their loyalty to the Pope. He is, after all, a foreigner.

The Lady Elizabeth has been at the Council Table for all meetings since our departure to London, and has proved - as predicted - that she is both tolerated rather than welcomed, and very capable of seeing, but saying nothing. Her opinions are ventured afterwards, it seems, and I understand, so far, that they are most interesting and incisive.

As is often the case, Cromwell and I remain behind to consider the discussions, which is easily achieved by taking longer than everyone else to clear our papers. As we generally have far more papers than anyone else, most are long gone before we have finished, even if we are not intending to meet with their Majesties.

"We have not made as much progress as I had hoped with the Religious settlement." The King sounds most disappointed - but he is still very young, and does not appreciate the delicacy of the situation. Not all people think has he does, or as his sister does. It is hard for his mother to do so, but she has found it in herself to appreciate the views of her children. Elizabeth has seen the outcome of religious strife in ways that he has not, of course; but he has spent time in her company, and, despite his tender years, is no fool.

"It is hard for men to find common ground on a matter such as this, Majesty," Cromwell sighs, "I myself am little better, for my own views are rather set; but I know as you do that we cannot continue to impose cruelties upon one another over matters such as transubstantiation or the veneration of saints. For those of us who do not see these things as religiously valid, there are many more for whom it is central to their faith. When all is said and done, we all look to the same Holy Father, and the manner in which we do so is perhaps of less importance to Him than the fact that we do so at all."

"I wish that more people thought as you do, my Lord."

"Until I was united with the Gemfire, Majesty," He admits, "I did not. I was as keen to stamp out the old faith as men such as Bonner are keen to stamp out the new, and worked quite fervently to ensure it would happen. When I was overtaken, it was by the Word, that very Word which was spoken at the beginning of all things. I felt its power, and the source from which it came - and then I understood that it is faith in God that is important, not the manner in which it is expressed; for the rituals of our worship are mere trifles and embellishments - and serve more to bring people together in faith than to overtly save them."

"Exactly!" the King agrees, pleased at Cromwell's words, "That is what I think! Mr Ascham wanted me to see that, and I'm glad of it, for has there not been enough strife over such matters?"

How old is this boy again?

Once he has returned to his Privy Chamber, the Queen sighs, but her expression is proud, "He is so young - and yet he has been educated well. He does not have his father's impulsiveness - but he does have the strength, and intelligence that belonged to his late Majesty."

"He also has you, sister." Somerset reminds her, "I suspect that the government of our realm would be very different had he been required to stand up to the wishes of an interim council and a Lord Protector." He has the grace to look sheepish - for it is almost a certainty that he would have been that Lord Protector, or fighting for his own interests against whoever had been appointed had he not.

"I believe Ambrose Dudley has arranged for him to go hawking for the rest of the afternoon," she adds, "and Hal is to go with them, though he is less interested in the sport and thus is attending for the ride only."

"If it brings the brothers together, Majesty, then it is all for the good." Cromwell says, sagely, "But we must away back to our desks; and I hope that we shall have some word from our agent soon - as her quarry should far easier to find than those previous."

His estimation proves to be correct, for Baxter has left a note in my portfolio upon my desk while I have been in the Council chamber. It seems that Madame Askew has found a great deal of information - and now I can remember where I have heard the name Drayton before. Mr John Drayton is the son of the brother of Agnes Drayton; who married William Wriothesley, the York Herald. Thus, he is the cousin of Thomas Wriothesley - who is sitting across from me at his desk, as he has since he returned from recording the Council meeting.

I frown at the letter, bemused - what has this cup got to do with the cousin of the King's Secretary? It makes no sense…

Hopefully Cromwell shall have more ideas than I, and I step through to his office.

"Thank God you are here, Richie - I was about to send for you." He looks most dismayed.

"What is it?" his expression is such that my note is all but forgotten.

"Anne." He says, quietly, "She has been arrested."

* * *

For a moment, I am silent, but then the questions come crowding in, "How? How did that happen? Why?"

Cromwell is pouring out sack again, "Take a seat, and I shall tell you what I know - which is not much."

Slowly, I sit down, and take the glass, though I do not drink.

"Madame Askew was in male attire when she visited the Draper's Hall, for they would have been less likely to note an enquiry about a Liveryman from another man, as she was feigning an interest in seeking apprenticeships." He sighs, "She had not exchanged it for female garb when she returned to her lodgings and emerged again, presumably as her business was unfinished, and was arrested by some men - apparently working for Edmund Bonner. It seems that he has arrested her for heresy."

"Being dressed in male attire." I mumble, "But he cannot do anything - heresy is only punishable by death if the perpetrator has relapsed."

"She has been held before, Richie - remember? That was the service we rendered to her - for she was held once before for speaking publicly against the Six Articles established by his Majesty. I knew nothing of that, for we were engrossed upon the defeat of Lamashtu, so that matter was handled by Bull. We could not save everyone, but we tried; and she was one of those who was successfully defended. Unfortunately, to be seen wearing male attire, and to have no good reason for doing so, could be viewed as a relapse into heresy again - and that _is_ still punishable by death."

"What do we do? How can we aid her?" After all that she has done for us, the thought of her facing such a ghastly fate is appalling, and I wish more than anything to extricate her from it.

"There is nothing that we can do." He sighs, sadly, "No matter how much power we wield, we are not above the Law. While the King is working to end the view of heresy as either a crime or a sinful act, it has not yet been resolved. King Edward might well act to save her - but it is not a matter that would normally involve royal power, so why would the authorities put the matter to him? Besides, until we know who is truly behind this, we are blind. At present it is likely to be an accusation of heresy - but if any of our enemies are involved, who knows what might follow?"

"This might help," I hold out the note, "She had time to dispatch this before she was taken. John Drayton is the cousin of our very own Mr Wriothesley."

"Wriothesley?" Cromwell stares at me, dismayed, "God - I had not thought to consider him amongst those who are ranged against us; but why would his cousin be so keen to get hold of a cup that we need in order to prevent a demonic incursion? There is no other connection to the Court, or to men of high estate. Wriothesley is not a Lord, but he works amongst many who are."

"Northumberland?" I ask, at once.

"Who is to say? There is no evidence one way or the other. Northumberland has changed his behaviour so utterly that it is either a feint, or he has decided to cease his plotting - but only we would see his actions in such a light. We have no means to prove that he is the one who is consorting with Eligos."

"Where is Anne now?" I decide to drop the 'madame' - she is in need, and she is one of us.

Cromwell looks up at me, "The Tower."

"God, no…"

"It would not be wise for me to attempt to gain entry - for I am too prominent. Were it possible to do so, then I would be aboard a barge and on my way to the Tower now. There is no suggestion that we are connected to her in any way - but the risk of giving those who wish to remove us an opportunity to claim one is very great."

"I am not as well known as you, Thomas. I shall go in disguise - I'm sure Baxter can aid me with that. I have not been to the Tower since we battled Lamashtu, and none there shall know my face."

"You must be very careful, Richie - very careful indeed. I have no doubt that she is being watched to see if any are aiding her. If you do so, you must take great care not to be apprehended."

"I shall take the risk - but I shall also ensure that the spies are advised. One of the warders is with us - and he shall aid me in reaching her, while the others can assist in getting me in, and out, without being apprehended."

He nods, "Speak to Baxter to make the arrangements; and for God's sake, be careful."

"Always, Thomas."

* * *

I have ridden down from Hampton Court to Whitehall, ostensibly to accompany some important papers to be archived, so none comment at my absence. Baxter awaits me in the Privy Garden, dressed as a gardener again, "I have already arranged for Anne's lodgings to be cleared, Mr Rich," he begins, "It is done as a matter of course. Bonner's agents found nothing of any worth when they searched the rooms yesterday, but there are a few items that might be of interest to you, so I shall have them delivered to Grant's Place."

"Thank you." That, at least, is something - they have no evidence to use against her, and nothing to suggest that she is working for us.

"It will be at least two days before we can get you in to see her, though." He admits, "Our plant in the Tower reports that she is undergoing interrogation as we speak - Bonner is with her, and two others."

"Who?"

"I shall find out for you." He says, quietly.

I spend those two days in a fever of worry - though I can guess who one of the interrogators is, for Wriothesley is absent from the offices. Northumberland is also absent, but the word is that he has gone to one of his estates in Berkshire - purchased from Giffard, I believe - and thus I shall have to wait to find out who the second interrogator might be. While I wait, I think over how I shall be disguised, and decide to re-use the pseudonym I invented when I was at Whitehall, and once again call myself Dickon Empshott.

On the morning of the third day, I make my way to the Privy Stair in a suit of borrowed clothing, where Baxter is awaiting me. A wherry bobs alongside, the oarsman a rather brutal looking man by the name of Griffiths, but who nods, respectfully, "Mr Rich."

Another spy, then. I might have control of them, but I could not identify any of them if I met them.

Fortunately, the tide is not racing, and thus it is safe to risk the passage between the starlings at London Bridge. I am not fool enough to disembark at the Tower Wharves, but instead at Blackfriars, where a cart piled high with bales of straw for the Tower awaits me. I am about to burrow into the heap, when the carter stops me, "Don't be an idiot, Dickon - you ride with me on the seat."

I am not used to being surreptitious - it appears that I have much to learn.

No one pays us any attention as the cart clatters along the riverside towards the looming bulk of the Tower. I suspect that Madame Askew is being held in the cells of the old fortress, but as the straw is likely to be used as floor covering and bedding for the lesser prisoners, at least I shall have access to those ghastly corridors, for they store the stuff down there as well as the prisoners. If I am caught doing this, then I imagine that I shall end up being stored here, too.

The warder that awaits us nods, and shakes the carter's hand, but does so in a particular way, his forefinger pointing along the back of the carter's hand - and I realise that he is our man. Thank God - he shall get us to where we need to go, let me in to see Madame Askew, and get us back out again. If I did not have access to the talents of these people, then I should be truly helpless.

"She is being held here, Mr Rich." He whispers, the echoes covering his words.

"Empshott, Quaesitor," I suggest, "I am Mr Empshott for today."

He nods, "You should note that her inquisitors have been most determined - and they have acted illegally. The Constable refused to do what they demanded - and I believe he is even now on his way to Whitehall to beg the King's forgiveness - so they did it themselves."

"Did what?" I ask, though I can guess, and I feel sick at the thought.

The warder pauses at a cell door, looks both ways, and unlocks it, "You have ten minutes at the most, Mr Empshott - use them wisely. We shall see to the straw." As soon as I enter, the door is closed behind me, and locked.

"Christ have mercy…" I cannot believe what I am seeing - for she is lying, supine, upon the floor in a long smock that covers her to her ankles. She does not move, but her head turns slightly, and she moans as she does so. There is only one means of interrogation that can leave a victim so helpless: she has been racked.

"Mr Rich…" her voice is weak.

"Anne; dear God - what have they done? Who did this to you?" I am on my knees beside her, my voice a low whisper to avoid any overhearing us.

"No questions, just listen." She says, faintly, "Drayton is Wriothesley's cousin - as I told you. He is in league with Northumberland, and they were both here, trying to find some means to bring down you and the Raven. They know that I am no mere religious speaker - and they tried by any means they could to get me to tell them that I was working with you both to destroy the King and rule through his brother. They want you out of the way because you can stop Northumberland's plan."

Northumberland…so he _is_ involved…

"He has lost sight of all that is important; he has been tempted by riches and power beyond the right of man. He wants the cup, because it can summon just as easily as it can banish. I found something…some papers…but I cannot read them…"

"Baxter had your lodgings cleared. They shall be in my hands before the day is out. Rest assured of that."

"Then I can die content."

"No, Anne - do not think so. We shall help you…"

"You cannot, Mr Rich. Not this time - besides, my limbs are ruined for all the strings of my elbows and knees are wrenched and broken - Wriothesley and Northumberland saw to that, with their own hands. I cannot move without pain…it is better that I go, for what use am I to the Order now? One more death for faith, and then it shall end - for none shall countenance another martyrdom. Perhaps this shall win the settlement…"

Wriothesley? And Northumberland? God have mercy - they could not persuade Anthony Kingston to commit such an immoral and illegal act, so they did it themselves. Damn them…damn them both…

"I am not afraid, Mr Rich. It shall be a release from my pain - and I shall go to God with my conscience clean."

"We shall do what we can to ease your passing, Anne. I promise you. I _promise_ you."

"Bless you." She smiles at me, "The Order gave me a reason to live - a purpose. I am grateful, for I have done good things with my life."

"As have I." I agree, carefully stroking some rogue strands of hair from her eyes, for she cannot, "I shall be there when you are brought out, and I shall ensure that it is over as quickly as possible."

"Thank the Raven for me. It was an honour to serve."

"I shall do so." I want to get out of here - I want to run, flee - scream and howl my grief and rage. Why is this still happening? Why has the plotting not stopped with the death of Henry? What is _wrong_ with people? And yet, I am no better, for now I want to destroy Wriothesley as he has destroyed this good woman…and is that not wrong? Am I not meant to forgive those who hurt me?

But I cannot. I cannot…

I am pulled from my anguished reverie by the scrape of the key in the lock of the door, "Forgive me Mr Empshott, but we are done. You must come now."

"Go." Madame Askew smiles at me, despite her obvious pain, "I shall look out for you when my time comes."

"I shall be there. I promise."

Shaking with grief, and anger, I follow my colleagues out of the prison, and board the now-empty cart. None notice our departure, any more than they noticed our arrival, but rather than return to the Palace, I step down from the seat as soon as we are amongst a crowd, and slip away. There is a coffer awaiting me at Grant's Place.

* * *

I do not risk staying overnight at the house, for I have no doubt that my absence shall be noticed; but with the coffer safely contained in a large canvas bag over my shoulder, I change into more appropriate clothes for a man of my state, and the carriage delivers me to the Tower Wharves as though I am merely travelling back to the Palace after undertaking some private business.

It is hard to conceal that bubbling anger that Madame Askew's dreadful plight has inspired in me, but I must - for neither Wriothesley nor Northumberland must know that I am aware of what they have done. Anthony Kingston's visit to the Palace to seek the King's forgiveness for his dereliction of duty shall be a pointless exercise given that his Majesty is at Hampton Court, and thus his Majesty shall not know of their behaviour until it is far too late to act. How I can return to my desk in the offices and sit there with the Secretary mere feet away, I cannot begin to imagine - but, again, I must; for otherwise they shall know that I am aware of his plans. Does he know? Is he aware that, in conspiring with Northumberland, he is consorting with a Demon? I imagine that Bonner does not - for despite his determination to stamp out heresies, he would never, ever do so in league with an infernal being, any more than Gardiner would have done.

The river is too dangerous at the Bridge to go any further, and I am obliged to disembark and search for another boat upriver, which delays me somewhat - but Urban is awaiting me, already saddled, and I am quickly on my way out to Hampton again. As time is shorter than usual, I do not stop to dine, and press my horse to a canter wherever I can, thus reaching the Palace as the last of the autumn light fades away into night.

None see my return, and I am soon back in my chambers, the coffer carefully stowed in a closet under some of my finer Court clothes that are reserved for formal occasions. Now that I am hidden and in private, however, I cannot keep my anguish repressed any longer, and sink down on the bed, tears streaming down my face. I want to save her - but I cannot…I cannot…

I am roused from my misery by a knock at the door, and I hastily wipe at my damp face as best I can, though I know that Cromwell would not be scornful of my tears. But it is not Cromwell who is awaiting me in my main Chamber. Instead, it is the Duchess of Somerset.

"My Lady?" I ask, having been obliged to clear my throat at the first attempt.

"My Lord." Her expression is urgent, and distressed, "Forgive me, I did not wish to disturb my husband, and I did not know where else to turn."

I am most confused, for I cannot imagine what she would wish to discuss with me, "How can I be of assistance?"

"I need to get to the Tower," she says lowering her voice, "You are one of very few people who can arrange a warrant to grant me entry, and you are trusted by the Queen and my Husband so I think you shall not betray me - there is one there to whom I must speak."

I can think of only one person, "Anne Askew?"

Her eyes widen fearfully, "How did you…"

"It was but a guess, Madame, for I have been there myself this very day, and spoken to her. I cannot think of any other prisoner that would cause you to come to me." I pause, "Though I think there would be no objection if you chose to visit her."

"Perhaps not, but I am sure that my visit shall not go unremarked." She says, quietly, "For my husband is unpopular in some quarters, and his destruction would be welcomed by them. For his wife to be seen consorting with a known heretic and traitor…"

"Traitor?" I ask. I was not aware that she had been accused of treachery as well.

"It is rumoured that she is working to bring down some of the councillors - though there are no comments as to who she is allied with, or who they aim to destroy."

"My Lady - please, be seated. I have much to tell you, but it must be spoken of quietly." I guide her to a chair beside the fire, and lower my voice, "I visited Madame Askew this morning, and she is in a most pitiable state - for she has been racked."

"That is illegal!" the Duchess protests, fortunately not too loudly – she has more sense than to speak too loudly, it seems.

"The intention was to implicate the Lord Chancellor and myself in a plot to overthrow the government. Needless to say, she has not done so, for it is patent nonsense, and such is her forbearance and courage that she refused to tell her tormentors what they wished to hear in order to end her ordeal."

"God have mercy upon her…"

"She expects to be condemned, I fear - but I have promised her that we shall ensure that her passing is eased. We shall ensure that a bag of gunpowder is placed about her neck to end the suffering as quickly as possible. For it is certain that she shall burn, unless his Majesty reprieves her. So damaged is she, however, that she hopes that he shall not."

"His horror of such cruelties shall almost certainly prompt him to do so." She insists. And I agree that she is likely to be right.

"That is, of course, on the assumption that he finds out. I have no doubt that there are people present who shall do all they can to ensure that he does not - or, if he does, it shall not be until after she is dead."

The Countess places a small purse in my hand, "Then use this to buy the gunpowder, my Lord. If you are to be present, I wish to be the one who gives the gift." She is close to tears, and I nod. I promised Anne, and it shall be done.

"Where is the King?" I ask Cromwell, as I enter his office the following morning for there is no sign of either his Majesty, the Regent or Somerset today, and I was not present to notice any departure thanks to my own absence.

"Ambrose Dudley has been prevailed upon by his father to host them at one of his new Manors." Cromwell advises, crossly, "I attempted to suggest that the timing was not sensible, but Prince Hal grew most contrary when the Queen demurred, and it was decided that they might do so on this occasion - largely to avoid an embarrassing royal tantrum."

"So he is not present to know that Madame Askew is condemned." I sigh - for the news came through this morning. Consequently, I have not entered the offices, for I am not sure that I shall be able to stop myself from striking Wriothesley.

"It shall be done the day after tomorrow, two days before his Majesty is due to return."

"Lady Somerset has asked me to aid her in securing a bag of gunpowder." I advise, more quietly, "As I had already planned to do so, it was no hardship to agree to it. As I assume she has gone with her husband and their Majesties, I shall go there myself to ensure that there is at least one friend present for Anne - and that her end is quicker than it might have been,"

"The King shall be most distressed when he returns to discover this." Cromwell admits, "For he is vehemently opposed to using fire in such manner - and he was not present to prevent a burning." He looks at me, then, "I need to go over some papers with you today, Richie. If you could draw up a chair, we shall do so at my desk." He knows I cannot bring myself to go to my own. Not while Wriothesley is present. God, I wish we were back at Whitehall - I would then have an office of my own and not be obliged to be anywhere near a man that I now regard with an almost rabid hatred.

By the day's end, we have at least managed to get some work done - though we are both rather distracted, and I note that Wriothesley has departed Hampton Court. Clearly he intends to be present at the burning, too - though his reasons are likely to be partly in the hope that she cries out something useful to him, and partly because he enjoys watching others in pain.

Why did I think that? I have not seen it to be so - and yet it is such a strong conviction that I cannot shake it off. Oh God, is that infusion wearing off? That is the last thing that I need at such a time as this.

"Shall you come tomorrow?" I ask, as we sup - or, rather, pick at the victuals set before us with little interest.

"I fear not." He sighs, "My absence here shall be noted - but, equally, if I am seen there, people shall assume that I am the one who ordered her death, and I do not wish to cause any outbreaks of disorder. She deserves better than the indignity of a public riot." Instead, he reaches into his desk, "Place this upon the bag of gunpowder before you hand it to the executioner, Richie. She shall recognise it, and know that I have not forgotten her."

I examine the small piece of fabric that he has given me - a small black patch in the shape of a standing bird that is clearly intended to indicate a raven. A single pin should hold it, and even if it meant something to that craven individual who shall gloat over her death, it shall be obliterated before he can retrieve it.

My sleep is disturbed by ghastly dreams of fire and pain, and I wake in a most unpleasant state of tiredness; but nonetheless, I must go - and so once again Urban carries me back to London. I shall travel across to Grant's Place rather than to Whitehall, for I cannot be certain that Wriothesley shall not be there - though I have no doubt he has a London Residence as I do. I shall also be much closer to Smithfield, where she is to die. As if that were not bad enough, her death is to take place almost outside one of my homes, for I hold the Advowson for the Great Church of Bartholomew, and some of the former monastic buildings are now converted for residence. God, I could watch her die from my own main chamber - but I do not want to go there tonight; I would be alone there, and tonight I need to have company.

The mood at Grant's Place is, I am not surprised to find, most subdued, and I note that Baxter is also present, "I have secured the gunpowder, Mr Rich." He advises, grimly, "I can pass it to the executioner on your behalf if you wish - to conceal who has given it."

I shake my head, "She has not given our names, Quaesitor - thus I feel no fear of revealing that I am with her. The King shall never permit my arrest over a matter such as this, and our enemies know it. Besides, I promised her that I would do it, and also another Lady who came to ask that the service be performed."

He nods, then retreats to collect the bag, which he hands to me, "For her." He says, simply, "There are none better. I do not believe that her arrest was thanks to her - someone betrayed her."

Someone, or something? If Northumberland _is_ consorting with Eligos - he could have warned his human factor…but again I cannot prove it. Without proof, I have nothing.

The night that follows is longer than any I have known, for I sleep not at all. Instead, I carefully ensure that the small raven patch is fixed to the bag of gunpowder, and spend not a few hours on my knees. I cannot save her - but I can ask for her to receive both mercy and grace. It is all that I can do in the absence of a reprieve.

And so, in the grim first light of a cold, grey morning, Baxter departs first, and I follow half an hour later. We are both early, but I want to be sure that I can get to the executioner, and arrange with him that he sets the gunpowder around Anne's neck. I promised her - and Lady Somerset. I still have the purse of monies that she gave me, and that shall be used to reward the man for his service.

It does not take me long to get there, and I am soon alongside the man who shall bind her to the stake, "Set this about her neck, I beg you." I place it in his hands, along with the sizeable number of coins that Lady Somerset gave me, "For God's sake, let her go quickly."

He nods, and carefully sets the bag about his person. Now it is out of my hands. Christ, if I were not positively dangerous with a ranged weapon, I would take up station with a crossbow somewhere to ensure that the promise is kept - but I could not hope to do it. Perhaps Baxter shall.

I was right to come early; for, as I step back into the porch of my house to conceal myself, I note Wriothesley has arrived, accompanied by a few other councillors who are present for formality's sake and who shall be seated upon a platform that has been constructed alongside the wall of the old church, facing away from the converted buildings that are now mine. From their expressions, none of them wish to be present, though the man himself seems quite wrapt with anticipation. My God - he cannot wait to watch a woman burn…

And again, I am grateful that I cannot shoot safely, because, God help me, if I could, then he would be dead. Here and now.

A hand rests upon my shoulder, and I jump violently. Then I turn, and I am most surprised, "I thought you said you would not come?"

"I did so in case we were overheard, Richie. I could not abandon her any more than you could. Besides, I have a crossbow under my cloak in case the gunpowder does not work."

"Give it to me. Then I can destroy that bastard…"

"No I shall not." He says firmly, "Even if I could be certain that you would not miss, I shall not allow you to do it. All shall receive their due rewards in time."

The crowd that is gathering is a strange one, for most who are present seem not to regard what is to come as just; which pleases me somewhat. Hopefully they shall hurl abuse at the councillors, particularly Wriothesley, for neither Cromwell nor I am among them. Our concealed position in my porch also aids us, for a number of my stewards have emerged to keep people away from my property - but, of course, they shall not do the same to me.

And then comes Mr Kingston, leading a pitiful procession - four warders carrying a chair upon which Anne sits, her face ashen from the pain. I am standing upon the porch seat, so that I can see her, and she can see me, for she knows that this is my house. The Councillors are watching her, and still have their backs to the old church, and thus they are not aware of our presence. Despite his anticipation of what is to come, Wriothesley has not at any time turned to see if I am at my door.

As I hoped, the executioner, as he lifts her from the chair and sets her up against the stake, speaks briefly to her. Once she is secured, he carefully sets the bag of gunpowder about her neck. Slowly, she raises her head, despite the pain, and looks across to us with something close to a smile, for she can see that I am not alone.

I close my eyes for a moment, as the executioner directs the addition of wooden faggots to the platform upon which she stands, her arms hooked painfully behind her in order to hold her up, for her ruined knees shall not. How can she not be screaming? God, I do not have such courage as she - I could not hope to be silent were I standing where she is. Instead, she waits, her lips moving as she prays. I want to stop this - but I cannot, for I am not powerful enough to demand it. Only the King can save her now, and the King is in Berkshire, far from this horrible business.

All is done, and there is nothing left but to watch as the executioner applies a flaming brand to the bonfire. I am shaking, and I am not sure whether I shall vomit, or faint - for this is the death that I fear more than any other, and I must watch an innocent woman endure it. Cromwell sets his hand upon my shoulder again, and I am grateful that I am not here alone.

The flames catch, and begin to spread - but she does not move, or make a sound, still silently praying. Yes, if she can do no more upon this earth, then she shall die with courage, and be considered a martyr - hopefully the last that England shall ever see. Even as the flames rise, she remains silent for a while, but eventually she cannot remain quiet and a scream escapes her. I think something similar escapes me, too, and Cromwell's hand tightens upon my shoulder even more.

And then, at last, the gunpowder catches, and all fall back as it explodes. And she is silent again.

I am now more grateful than I can express that I am in the porch of one of my own homes, for I am able to flee indoors and hide in the hallway, where my anger and grief can finally give way into a storm of tears and cursing that would be most unseemly in public.

"Damn him! Damn him to hell for his cruelty - that bastard! Damn him!"

Cromwell says nothing, but instead allows me to vent my fury, until I have no words left and sink into a chair.

"Come, Richie," he sets his hand upon my shoulder again, "There is nothing more we can do here. Did you not say that you have the papers that Baxter retrieved from her lodgings? It may be that there is something there that shall bring this horror to an end, and secure our safety from the Grand Duke of Hell."

His hand is shaking, too - and I know that he grieves as I do. He is, of course, stronger than I - he always has been - but he is not without feelings. We have been wounded by this - but now we must regroup and fight back. Not just for ourselves, or for England - but for Anne Askew also. She has given her life for this - and we must ensure that it was not given in vain.

* * *

Cromwell is keen that we reach Hampton Court before Wriothesley, as he is unlikely to have seen us at the execution, despite my having a perfect seat from which to view it. Thus we depart as soon as the crowds begin to disperse, slipping away with the throng. The last I see of the assembled councillors, they are still seated on their viewing platform, and it looks as though Wriothesley is suggesting to the others that they might wish to dine. If that is so, then he is likely to remain in London overnight, for there shall not be enough time to reach the Palace before dark at this time of the year if he leaves in the early afternoon. It shall be a close enough thing for us if we leave now - but I cannot stand to stay, and would willingly ride through the night, with all the risks that that entails.

Neither of us wish to press the horses, but Benedict and Urban seem as aware as we of the closing hours of daylight, and move briskly. Thus we arrive in the mews as the last of the twilight fades into absolute darkness, and I am grateful to retreat to my chambers and shut out a day that I shall never forget.

There is a haunch of mutton awaiting me, but I have no appetite, and instead I fetch out the coffer that I hid in my closet. The contents seem to be of little immediate use - though it is clear that many of the items were of great importance to Anne, and thus I shall ensure that they are kept safe. At the bottom, however, is a bible - one of the English printings that Cromwell helped to pay for. Never having read it, I lift the cover, and sigh; but then stop as a sheaf of papers fall from between two front pages.

As I lift them, I recall Baxter mentioning something that she had that she couldn't read - and realise that these are likely to be the text he meant, for it is in Greek. It is poorly written, and appears to have been taken from an older document in another language entirely; but I can read it, and as I do…

Cromwell opens the door to his chambers himself, so violent is my hammering upon it, "Richie? What is it?"

"She found it, Thomas. The papers - she found the information that we need."

He lets me in at once, "Tell me."

"I have not read them in much detail, Thomas - but as far as I can see, this details the ritual that shall repel Eligos - for it mentions the closing of a door, and the banishment of conflict. I have no idea where she found it, but it is what we need."

Intrigued, he asks James to find us some claret, and we seat ourselves beside the fire while I read the paper in more detail, "God, Thomas, this translation is appalling - it is very hard to understand what the original papers said, for the writer of this version seems to be most confused, and I cannot tell whether it is because he understood the original tongue poorly, or wrote Greek poorly."

"Tell me what you can, Richie."

"To my reckoning, the ritual requires bonded blood - which, as far as I can determine, is the mingled blood of two who are bonded by friendship or love. It is gathered in the cup, and an incarnation is spoken over it before it is poured out. That should drive Eligos away."

"And the incantation?"

I squint over the words, "I am not sure whether they should be spoken in Greek or English - though I imagine that either shall suffice given that they are neither of them the original language in which the paper was written." I pause over the words, and then begin.

"We brothers, bonded in weapons and blood

We speak as one but we are two

We invoke the power of this cup

We demand that conflict departs

We brothers, bonded in weapons and blood

We speak as one but we are two

As life is given, we give life

As death is demanded, we give death

In our blood, all shall be made well again

God aid us and grant us strength to speak, God aid us

Let it be done."

Cromwell smiles, then, "It seems that this shall require more than our blood, Richie, if this is to be believed. We must give life, and we must give death. That suggests that one of us must live, and the other die."

"Then the death shall be mine." I say, though I should very much prefer it not to be. I am not made to be a martyr.

He looks at me, bemused, "Why should it be yours? You have a young daughter that should not lose her father having lost her mother. You are ten years my junior - and I have lived a good life."

"And you have experience as a Silver Sword that should not be lost!" I tell him, at once, "Much as I wish it were not so, you must retire to Milan to pass on that which you have learned - I do not need to do the same, for I am but a Second, and my apprentice is well placed to succeed me!"

"No!" Cromwell's anger startles me, "Do you not understand your importance? No Second has reached your heights - and that should not be thrown away over something such as this - I am older than you, my loss is acceptable!"

"And mine is not? Why not? What use am I in comparison to you? You are the greatest Silver Sword that has ever been seen - and I am nothing more than a Second! _My_ loss is acceptable! And it is _far_ more acceptable than yours!"

"No it is not!" he shouts back at me, "Not to me! I will not lose you! Do you hear me? I have lost too many! My girls! My beloved Elizabeth! Joachim! Wolsey! Even Tom! I will _not_ lose you! I WILL _NOT_!"

The silence between us is almost deafening after all the shouting, and both of us are shaking and tearful. If one of us must die to save England from Grand Duke Eligos, then that shall be so - but how can we do it if we cannot decide who it shall be?

"The point is moot, Thomas." I murmur, eventually, "For even if we have this incantation, we do not have the cup."

He sighs, for he know that we are at an impasse, for no matter what we do, we can do nothing without that silver cup - and we still do not know where it is. Until we find it, no amount of words, or deaths, shall save us.

* * *

 **A/N:** I think it appropriate at this point to issue something of an apology to the reputation of Northumberland for the Tower incident above - as, whatever he might have done, or not done, in his life, racking a woman certainly isn't something he was involved in. Alas, as history tells us, the 'other' individual alongside Wriothesley who racked Anne Askew in the Tower was actually Rich himself, but I wanted to illustrate just how far this AU version has come in the decade since he first teamed up with the Raven, and now he serves as a reluctant witness to the ghastly event, rather than one of those responsible for it. I should add that Northumberland's behaviour in this tale is not entirely down to his character alone - which will become clearer the truth emerges.

While Anne's personal testimony after the fact is the only evidence we have that Wriothesley and Rich personally racked her - there's no evidence to the contrary, neither man denied it as far as we know, and Anne had no real motive to lie. Thus it's considered a valid testimony, and is a huge stain on an already dreadfully blotted copybook for the historic Richard Rich, and Thomas Wriothesley's reputation was little better when it came to political plotting and chicanery.

That said, regardless of who was responsible for it, Anne's courage in the face of extreme cruelty was incredible: she was racked primarily to try to force her to implicate Queen Katherine as a heretic, but despite everything they tried, she wouldn't do it. Even though I swapped out Rich and replaced him with Northumberland as being responsible for her ordeal, and changed the information they were trying to extract from her, her bravery and fortitude remains the same.


	26. Bonded Blood

**A/N:** Thank you for your reviews - I was a little wary of how that switch round would be received. Anne's death was a dreadful episode of history, particularly given the cynical political motives behind it, and her courage in the face of her ordeal was incredible. In spite of everything, I wanted to pay tribute to her for that.

Fortunately, her efforts to aid the Order have borne fruit - but where do they go from here? Read on to find out...

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six

 _Bonded Blood_

By morning, my mood is little better, for I have hardly slept. Much as I have no wish to die, if that is necessary to bring about the safety of England, then I am willing to do it - for the time when I would have thrown my own mother to the lions to save my neck is long gone.

It is a certainty that my loss shall be felt less keenly by the world than Cromwell's - even were he not a Silver Sword, his knowledge and political acumen has been of such vital importance to the governance of England that I dread to imagine the state that we would be in were he not present to steer such a steady course. But nonetheless, he would give his life willingly for mine, as I would do for him. We are brothers now; David and Jonathan. I could no more imagine my life without his friendship than I could stop breathing.

I cast my eyes over the small collection of items that Baxter rescued from Anne Askew's lodgings. There is nothing here that would have condemned us - and the presence of an English Bible would hardly have been sufficient to condemn her either; but that paper…

I read it again. We give life, we give death - one of us must live, it seems, the other die. Do we have a choice as to which of us it shall be? Perhaps not; but it is far better that the Second be lost than the Silver Sword, and I shall pray for that outcome, I think. Better that Cromwell survives to teach those who shall follow him, than I sit uselessly in my apartments and mourn until I join him in the next world.

God above, my thoughts are maudlin today! But after the horrors of watching Anne burn, and the realisation that one of us must be left alone to grieve for the other, what else would they be?

John has set out some bread and eggs, but I look upon them with distaste, for the thought of eating makes me feel quite sick. There shall be a council meeting today - and I must sit at the table with Northumberland, while Wriothesley sits nearby to take notes of our discussions. I do not think that I can do it. No, I cannot…

I am disturbed from my racing thoughts by a knock upon the door, and John opens it to admit Lady Rochford, "My Lord, her Majesty asks to see you." From her expression, I know why.

Cromwell is already present when I arrive, and the Queen is dressed most soberly, for she has received the news of what occurred while she and her sons were entertained in Berkshire, "How did this happen, my Lords?" she asks, quietly.

"Madame Askew was one of the Order's spies, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "We think that conspirators who wish to remove us acted to arrest her in hopes of finding some means to destroy us. She was wearing male attire at the time - for it is necessary to do so on occasion in order to work more effectively. Unfortunately, Bishop Bonner took her manner of dress to mean that she had relapsed into heresy."

The Regent sags in her chair, despite her stays, "And thus he could condemn her."

"It is worse, Majesty." I advise, though I suspect that I shall not be able to speak reasonably, "In their determination to find some means of implicating us, they showed her the instruments at the Tower. When that was insufficient, they placed her upon the rack."

" _What_?" Now she is horrified, for she knows as all do that no woman should be treated so, "Was the Constable aware of this?"

"He was - and he assumed it was to be no more than a mere threat. As soon as he discovered that the inquisitors were absolutely determined to carry out the torture, he refused to permit it, and withdrew his men. So the inquisitors racked her themselves."

"Why did he not inform me?"

"He attempted to, Majesty," Kingston is innocent in all of this, and I am keen to ensure that she knows it, "but he was not aware that the Court was at Hampton, and went to Whitehall to find none present. As you were away from the Court throughout this dreadful incident, however, there was no means for him to advise you, or seek your forgiveness for refusing to put a prisoner to the instruments."

The Queen is pale now, "I shall write to Mr Kingston at the first opportunity to advise him that I am aware of his attempt to prevent this heinous act, and absolve him of any responsibility for it." She looks up at Cromwell, "Who were these so-called inquisitors?" her expression suggests that she already knows the identity of at least one of them.

"According to our agent in the Tower, Northumberland, and Secretary Wriothesley. Bonner was present only for the initial interrogations; I think his involvement is purely for religious reasons."

"And Northumberland's?" She asks, quietly.

"We think that he is the one who has been seeking the cup as we have been." I tell her, "We have no evidence - only supposition - but his previous behaviour suggests most strongly that he is the one who has been consorting with Eligos."

She crosses herself, "And we thought it was mere ambition."

"Since this man Drayton is Wriothesley's cousin, it seems more than likely that he has the cup now." Cromwell sighs, "But we cannot say with any certainty whether it is needed to summon Eligos, or merely that Dudley has it to prevent it being used to repel him - in which case he would be a fool not to destroy it."

"No - he needs it." I say, though I know not why, and I sigh with dismay, for it seems that I am right in my fear that the infusion is losing its effectiveness. I began to make such unbidden statements a while ago, before the visions struck me.

"Are you sure?" Cromwell asks.

"No - but the words were placed in my mouth, and I have made such pronouncements before. I think that the infusion is beginning to fail me." I admit, "I suspect it shall not be long before I begin to see visions again."

"Perhaps, this time, it shall aid us." The Queen says, hopefully.

* * *

The atmosphere at the Council table is, to say the least, most brittle. His Majesty is aware now that a woman was burned at Smithfield while he was being entertained in Berkshire; and he is showing the first signs I have ever seen in him of his father's temper. The Lady Elizabeth is sitting alongside the Regent, her face even paler than usual. We had thought such horrors would end with the new reign.

"Why was this matter not brought to me?" He demands, furiously, "Am I not the head of the Church of England?"

Cromwell does not answer, for he had no part in it, and we wait to see if any shall respond - for those at the table who attended were not the ones who issued the condemnation - that would have been done by a judge, doubtless at the behest of the ones who wanted her dead. Only the highest born are condemned to die by a King.

"This woman burned as a heretic!" he says, even more angry that he has had no answer, "For wearing men's attire! No woman has been so punished for years beyond counting! The most she should have received was a fine!"

Somerset must have told him that - he is too young to know it for himself; but without any proof, he would not have told Edward that Northumberland is the one to blame. Besides, the boy has been hosted by the Duke's son, and does not have even the first idea that the elder Dudley is plotting against us.

He turns to Cromwell, "Can I have Bishop Bonner removed and replaced?" his temper seems less now, but he is most keen to ensure that the flouting of his royal Will is not left unmet.

"Yes, Majesty. The power to appoint Bishops in the Church of England is your prerogative."

"Then I shall do it. Ask Mr Cranmer to provide me with a list of suitable men to replace him. I do not want any more burnings. Ever." He insists. Now that his anger is fading, it could not be more obvious that he is distraught that his wishes have been so utterly ignored.

And through it all, Northumberland sits impassively and says nothing. To any who watch us, and do not know what Cromwell and I know, he appears as innocent as any other present. But he is not - and there is no proof. No evidence at all…

We are all startled by the sound of a knock upon the door, and a steward enters, "Forgive me, Majesties - but I have a letter from Lady Seymour that she insists must be placed directly into the hands of the Queen immediately."

We all exchange bemused glances, but the Regent nods, and accepts the letter. Given the urgency, she breaks the seal as she sits with us, but then draws in her breath sharply, and reaches for her brother's hand, "God have mercy…"

"What is it, Majesty?" Somerset looks most concerned, and then she hands him the letter, "My God…"

"Forgive us, Gentlemen," the Queen rises to her feet, as do we, "I fear we must end the meeting prematurely. Until tomorrow. Thank you."

People are rather slower than usual to gather their papers, until a fierce glare from Somerset reminds them to be more hasty. As is always the case, Cromwell and I are the last to complete the exercise, thanks to our excess of papers, but our presence is expected, and welcome.

"What is it, mother?" The King considers himself to be with his true Inner Circle now, and the formality has gone.

"It is your uncle Thomas, Edward." She answers, sitting again, "Lady Seymour has written to advise us that he developed a most mysterious illness two days past - and that he passed away last night."

We all exchange shocked glances, for Thomas Seymour was - to our knowledge, at least - in the best of health. And now he is gone?

"Does she describe the symptoms?" Cromwell asks, quietly as Somerset re-reads the letter.

"Not in extensive detail - but it seems that, over the course of the afternoon two days ago, he began to struggle to speak, and appeared to be flushed in the face. As the hours passed, he began to find he could not tolerate lights, and then vomited several times. He was put to bed, whereupon he became delirious and believed that the walls were talking to him, but his words were harder and harder to understand. Eventually he sank into unconsciousness, and did not wake again." Somerset looks a little pained, "She thinks it was poison."

"Surely not!" The Queen looks appalled; why would anyone wish to poison Thomas Seymour? He is hardly vital to the continuance of government, for heaven's sake!

"The symptoms seem too sudden to be an illness, Majesty," Cromwell muses, "Though there are some conditions that can strike suddenly, I am not aware of any that do so in such a combination as this. I am no expert upon the application and uses of poisons, I fear - for though we covered its use theoretically, we were never trained to use it. Demons are impervious to mortal poisons, and to use it against men is considered to be absolutely dishonourable."

"Indeed." The Lady Elizabeth observes, rather caustically, "It is considered to be a woman's weapon, for they have no other."

"Forgive us, Gentlemen." The Queen rises, her expression sad, "we shall withdraw for the moment. Could you advise the Council that there shall be no meetings for the rest of this week, please, my Lord?"

Cromwell nods as he bows, "Yes, Majesty."

We wait until we are alone before he speaks again, "If I were a true cynic, I would wonder if this letter was sent as a misdirection, so that we would not appreciate that this is the third of Lady Seymour's husband to pre-decease her; but that would be too obvious. She is a highly intelligent and cultured woman, and the first person that would be suspected would be her. No, I think that she is not to blame - but if this is indeed poison, who has done so, and why?"

"Mourning." I say. Oh, God. Not again. Maybe I should increase the dosage of that damned infusion.

He turns to me, and I shrug, a little helplessly "Forgive me - the word came to me unbidden."

"But it is a good suggestion, Richie." Cromwell muses, "How better to distract those who might stand against a conspiracy than to put them in mourning?"

"God help us - do you think Northumberland is on the move?"

"It would appear so, would it not?"

* * *

Their Majesties are dressed in black this morning, and the atmosphere at Court is rather bleak, for the news has emerged of the younger Seymour's death - though not the manner in which he died. I have retreated to my chambers again for the time being, for the sequence of awful events has quite unsettled me, and I feel that I need guidance, for I have not heard from Wolsey in a considerable time.

"Eminence?"

For a while there is no answer, and I am immediately worried - for he was assigned to watch over us until Cromwell is no longer alive.

 _Forgive me, Richard._ Eventually he speaks, but he seems rather contrite, _I appreciate that I have not been speaking to you in recent weeks - but something is attempting to prevent it, and I am not sure what it is. Even now, it is very hard to push through - though it is easier now._

God above - when was the last time he spoke to me? Was it before or after I began to drink that infusion? No - I am sure he admonished me the morning after I had taken the first draught of it - for I was in a fever of anticipation for that document in Picard to be translated. But I was at Grant's Place at the time, and I had only taken one dose. It seems that, in cutting myself free from the interference of my sword, I also shut myself off from Wolsey.

"Forgive me, Eminence - I think it was me. I have been imbibing an infusion to inhibit the interference of my sword with my mind - for it was becoming impossible to function."

 _You did what?_ The voice sounds scandalised, _What were you thinking, you dolt? You are_ meant _to be connected to your sword to that degree - if that were not so, then you would not have gained the ability!_

"An ability that leaves me barely conscious, Eminence!" I remind him, rather heatedly, "What use am I if I fall over every time I am struck with a vision?"

 _That would have reduced in time - you needed to become able to carry the weight, but you have shirked from the burden and thus you still cannot bear it! God's Blood, you are still an idiot, Rich!_

"Yes, Eminence, I am well aware of that - but I need advice on a more pressing matter than my own stupidity - that can be discussed at other times, for it is largely constant. Would we be right in thinking that Thomas Seymour's death was through the means of poisoning?"

 _Describe the symptoms to me. I cannot see others as I can see you._

Once I do so, he is silent awhile, _I recall one volume in the Library that discussed common poisons and their efficacy. The illness you describe suggests the use of henbane - and in a large quantity, for it is not inevitably lethal and smaller doses are survivable. Women use it regularly, I understand._

"We have discounted Lady Seymour, Eminence - she has come to Court in the light of the affair, and her grief seems genuine, though we have not interviewed her yet."

 _Do it, Richard; do it as soon as you may. Until we have a motive, we shall not be able to prevent another death should this anonymous poisoner strike again_.

"Do you think they shall?"

 _I would not discount anything where poison is concerned._

* * *

I feel most intrusive, and Lady Seymour's expression is one of deep grief. Yes, she loved Thomas Seymour, even if he loved her money more than he loved her; and I am quite certain that she was not responsible for his death.

"Forgive me, my Lady - but her Majesty has asked me to investigate this matter, and I have no doubt that you would be equally pleased to see the person who did this to you caught and punished."

"Oh yes, my Lord - most assuredly," she says, miserably, "I wish to find the one who did this, and ensure that they pay for taking away my happiness."

"Can you tell me what happened before your husband became ill?"

She sighs, and sits back, "We dined at midday, as is our habit; I was recovering from a chill upon my stomach, so I took only a small dish of broth and bread. My husband, however, ingested a large amount of mutton stew and frumenty - a favourite of his, and a dish that he had specifically requested that day. As we had no guests, the cook did not make a great deal of it, and no one else ate it as I did not wish to have my share. As I had not had my portion, it was discarded, for there was not enough to make another meal for anyone."

"Did he remark upon the dish in any way? Such as its appearance or flavour?"

She shakes her head, "No, I do not recall him doing so; but he did not show any concern. We were more keen to discuss our plans to erect a new banqueting house alongside the east range garden." Her voice falters at that, and she is fumbling for her kerchief.

"I beg your forgiveness, my Lady - I would not have wished to cause your grief to sting you anew. I shall ask one of my colleagues to visit Chelsea and question your staff, if you are content for me to do so?"

She nods, dabbing at her eyes. Thanks to her portion as a widow, there is now not a single woman in England who is wealthier than she, but I suspect she would exchange all of it to be granted her husband back. How ironic it is that, were that to happen, he would not want her without her money. God, she deserved better than that. At least she has been welcomed back into the Queen's household, so she must not face her widowhood alone.

I return to my chambers and pen a hasty missive to Cecil, advising him of the situation, and asking him to go to Chelsea to question the staff urgently. I have no doubt that the poisoner has long since left the palace, but at least if we know who has fled, there shall be someone to track down and question. I am sure the spies shall relish the challenge.

Cromwell is in his office, and I am glad to hide there rather than be faced with Wriothesley, for that horrible sense of intimidation is emerging again as my resistance to the infusion is building, and its efficacy is faltering, "I have spoken to Wolsey, Thomas. He thinks it likely that Seymour was poisoned with henbane. According to Lady Seymour, it is likely that the poison was in a mutton stew that was served that day. She did not partake of it, having had broth and bread, and her portion was discarded for there was not enough left to make a worthwhile meal for anyone else."

"She deliberately did not eat it?" Cromwell asks.

"She claims to have been recovering from a sickness of the stomach." I answer, "She is grieving greatly, Thomas; I do not think she was responsible. But I have dispatched Cecil to Chelsea - and he can confirm one way or the other. She did not object to my sending him."

"It is all going wrong, Richie." He complains, rather miserably, "I had such hopes that this reign would be peaceful and free from conspiracies - but I was a fool to think so. King Henry may be dead, but the grasping greed of men did not die with him. I am of half a mind to abandon the whole damn lot of them and leave for Milan before the month is out."

"And leave me to face Eligos alone?" I know he is not serious.

"I think that he would flee from you, Richie. You are a force to be reckoned with these days - even if you do not believe it to be so." He is about to speak again, but then stops at the sound of a light clatter against his window. Frowning, he turns, and we look up as there is another, and then another. Someone is throwing stones.

Bemused he rises, and looks out. Then turns to me, bemused, "Lady Rochford is without - flinging small pieces of gravel at the window."

"Which suggests she wishes to speak to us privately." I finish.

"Shall we?"

* * *

We eventually find the Lady in a stone gazebo surrounded by a large expanse of gravel, "No one can approach soundlessly," She explains, "What I am about to tell you must be kept between us, or the plan shall falter and we shall save no one."

"What plan?" I ask, worriedly; what is happening, and why do we not know of it?

"For once, I am grateful for that prattling little harlot." She says, a little resentfully, "Miss Katherine Howard has been speaking out of turn again, and thus may have saved us from disaster."

"In what way?" Cromwell asks, firmly. This is no time for spite.

"Her most recent amour is a personal Groom to a high noble, and he is as free with his secrets as she is with her virtue. There is indeed a plot to unseat the Regent - and it is aimed at those who are closest to her."

"Her brothers?" I ask. They cannot mean us, for we are mere politicians, and thus easily replaced.

"The younger was to be poisoned in a manner that suggested his wife had done it - so one of the cooks, who was known to despise Thomas Seymour, was bribed to add a large quantity of henbane to his food when the moment seemed opportune. Apparently she has had a bout of sickness, and thus did not eat the meal that killed him."

"But that faltered for she was not suspected."

"Perhaps so - but it is rumoured that Lady Somerset is not contented with her lot, for she wishes that her husband was the Lord Protector, and he has not attempted to claim the title."

"And you think it likely that she shall also mysteriously find some means of dispatching an inconvenient husband?" I ask.

"That is the intention - again, as poison is always presumed to be a woman's method of murder, it is hoped that she shall also be blamed. But then her Majesty shall be in mourning for both her brothers - and what is to stop men complaining that she is not fit to be Regent if she is withdrawn from court? We shall have a Lord Protector before the week is out."

"Not if I have anything to do with it." Cromwell snaps, furiously.

"You and My Lord Rich are to be denounced and arrested as co-conspirators."

"Oh God, not again." I complain, but then I turn to her, "Would I be correct in suggesting that said Groom is in the household of a certain Duke of Northumberland?"

"You would, my Lord."

He could do it. He truly could - for we had not seen this in the wind at all. Perhaps if I had not been taking that infusion, I might have been warned; but I was, so the fates seem to have found another way to warn us. I had better stop drinking the blasted stuff, then.

"Speak to Lady Somerset, my Lady, and advise her that I have sent you." I tell her, for she has come to me as a trusted confidant, so I hope she shall appreciate the danger, "She must be accompanied by trusted gentlewomen that have no connection to either faction at all times, and she must not be seen to have any involvement with the meals that are served to her husband. Similarly, we shall warn Somerset and ensure that he does not eat any food that Northumberland has not eaten first. I am quite sure that he has no intention of risking his own life to remove a rival - for what use is poison if it kills him as well as the one he wishes to replace?"

"I shall see to it." She agrees, and hastily departs.

"An interesting idea, Richie." Cromwell smiles at me as we make our own way back through the gardens as though merely taking a stroll, "We must be subtle - but given that Northumberland has made such a pretence of changing his heart and allying with us more obviously, it shall be a simple matter to seat them together at the high table, and serve them from the same dish. Even if he does not appreciate that we have found him out, it shall certainly make him think twice about having poisoned victuals served to Somerset."

I shudder at the thought of it - had Kitty Howard not had a tongue as loose as her morals, we would know nothing of this. With the Queen in mourning for one brother, to lose the other would certainly leave her utterly open to being removed. It would be a simple matter to give out that she had retired from Court to a quite manor in the countryside, and appointed Northumberland as Lord Protector in her place. And then what? Assuming that he has an agreement with Eligos, would he summon the demon then? Or would he decide to enjoy the spoils of his alliance without granting his ally the opportunity to step forth? Either way, it would spell disaster for England. King Edward would fight it, and thus I have no doubt a convenient illness would lead to another King Henry; who is as susceptible to flattery as his father was, and equally impulsive.

Thank God we have been alerted.

And then I clasp my hands to my head as it seems to all-but explode; and I fall, screaming, to the floor.

* * *

Again, I can see a wasteland - but not the one covered in thorned wire. Instead, I see the great Palaces of France afire, people fleeing in all directions as others, weapons in hand and madness upon their faces, run hither and thither, killing all that come before them as the nation collapses into strife over religion and the succession. The government of France has collapsed, for the King and all of his sons have all been murdered, and now the great Houses of the nobility fight amongst themselves to claim the crown for themselves, for his daughters cannot inherit it thanks to the Salic Law. It cannot be so - it cannot, for the Government of France is stable; but is it? Is ours? Were this to happen in England, might we too also fall into the ghastliness of civil war once again? Oh my God, oh dear Christ! My head! My head!

Suddenly my shoulders are firmly grasped, "What can you see, Richie? What is it?"

The images are gone, and suddenly Cromwell is before me, looking at me intently. For a moment, no words seem to form, and I struggle to move my mouth at all, but then I manage to speak, "Murder - in France. Henri and all of his living sons - I cannot tell why, but it shall throw all of France into civil war as the house of Valois is eclipsed and even the Emperor hopes to take the lands for himself…"

And then I know nothing more.

When I open my eyes again, I find that I am again in my bedchamber, resting upon the covers, and a cloak laid over me. I have not been put to bed, which suggests I have not been unconscious for as long as I have been before. John is nearby, and looks most relieved.

"How long have I been here, John?"

"Three hours, my Lord."

Better that than a day, I suppose.

"Where is the Lord Chancellor?"

"He went to dispatch a message, my Lord. He said he would be back as soon as he had done so."

I rest back upon the pillows, my head aching, though not as badly as it used to do after such an assault upon me. It seems, then, that the bond with my sword has indeed overcome the infusion. Ah well, if it has proved to be useful, then perhaps I should not complain too much. As long as the Council learns to become accustomed to my occasional faints, of course.

I think I must sleep again, for it is dark when I next open my eyes, and Cromwell is seated alongside the bed, "I have sent a message to France, Richie. Falcon shall take steps with the French itinerants to ensure that there is no assassination."

"I hope I was in time." I admit, a little tiredly, "I have been a fool - Wolsey has already berated me for not accepting the gift of Shadowsight. Had I not been imbibing the infusion, then I might be more able to withstand these visions and impressions by now."

"We were not to know that." He sighs, "Much might have been different, but it was not. We must live with the consequences of all that we do - but if this vision saves France, and Europe, from chaos, then all shall not have been in vain. After all, if the continent goes to war, we shall be expected to become involved to some extent - and what better to serve the ends of Eligos?"

"But it seems that I am now granted at least some ability to see the future, Thomas. No man has been granted such a gift, and I am not sure that it is truly a gift at all, more a curse."

"Nor have you, Richie - the ability lies in the sword, does it not?"

"But still it comes to me; and I am not sure that I want it." I find that I am close to tears now, for the thought frightens me. If I can see the future, then I can see how everything shall end - and when, too.

Cromwell rests his hand upon my shoulder, "I know what it is to be burdened with something that is granted only to few - even though it lacks as much weight as this. I wish that I could help you carry this, but all I can do is walk with you, and listen to your fears should you need to express them. Besides, it may be that the visions shall diminish once this battle is done - for it is the rising threat that could well have brought it so much to the fore."

"God, I hope so."

I am fully recovered by morning, and we put our plans into action. Somerset declares his intention to spend Christmastide at Wolf Hall, as he has been neglecting his wife and wishes to remedy it. She declares her happiness at this, and her intention to depart there at once to begin the preparations, for while it is still only October, the house has not been lived in for some time and shall need to be readied.

Additionally, Northumberland is most pleased to find that his less contentious behaviour is bearing fruit, for now he is placed at the high table alongside his fellow Duke. He is less pleased, however to find that Somerset is magnificently solicitous of his needs, and has taken to serving him from the dishes - and consequently he is unable to avoid eating the victuals that Somerset is sampling. I have no idea if he knows that his intention is discovered, but even if he does not, it is quite amusing to watch him attempting to persuade Somerset to try something other than that which has been set upon his plate.

After five days, word comes through from France via our usual diplomatic channels of an attempt to overthrow King Henri that was miraculously foiled. A plot, it seems, by some high ranking members of the Bourbon family in league with the Guises, looking to remove the sitting house of Valois, and likely made easier by the sheer animosity of the population towards one another thanks to his repressive policies towards those of the new faith in France - to the point of granting a third of an arrested Huguenot's property to the one who informs upon him. Indeed, so unbalanced is the Kingdom in terms of peace that, had the attempt succeeded, then civil war would almost certainly have broken out - just as I saw in my vision.

Already, Miguel of Iberia has spoken out against the horror of such a crime, and thanked God that it was averted, while the Emperor has found himself with little option but to do likewise, despite the possibilities of swallowing up French lands had the country imploded in the wake of such an atrocity. Even as Cromwell reads these observations from the English Ambassador in Paris, I can see Northumberland's hand gripping at his papers to the point that one sheet has crumpled into his fingers, and his knuckles are growing white. He cannot possibly have been a party to that conspiracy - but I have no doubt that he knew of it, and was intending his own plans to coincide with it - for how could we possibly have avoided going to war? The arguments alone would have fractured the government.

And then I realise that Northumberland is looking at me, and his expression is one of such hatred that I realise he has guessed how the coup was prevented. He knows - for I see all things. I have shadowsight.

But I am not afraid - for the first time, even knowing that I am the one at most risk in this room now, I return his angry glare quite calmly, and then I smile at him.

"Damn you, Rich!" he shouts, suddenly, wrenching his poniard from the sheath at his hip, "How did you stop it?"

"Stop what, my Lord?" Even now, I am unafraid; though all around me are most certainly not, "I do not understand your meaning."

"You knew! You must have known, who are you talking to? Who?"

Again, I look at him with an innocent blankness that all but drives him mad, and he lunges across the table at me, though Cromwell is equally fast, and deflects the Duke's extended arm quickly and easily, sending the poniard clattering across the floorboards to the wall.

"I shall not be denied, d'you hear me?" He shouts, enraged, "I'll keep my side of the bargain even if that Medici cow doesn't!"

And then he is gone.

"Stop him!" Cromwell shouts, suddenly, "He has tried to kill the Lord Privy Seal!" then he is leaning over me, "Are you harmed?"

"God no, Thomas. You stopped him." Even now, I feel no sense of fear. I know that I am the one who is hated, I am the one who must be destroyed, for I see all things - I have shadowsight. But still, I am not afraid - and I am not sure if that is my own courage, or that of my sword, "If he believes that the Queen of France is party to what has happened, then he is mistaken - or deceived, for she is not; why would she be when the powers that rose aimed to bring down her family?" I pause, then, "He intends to kill me."

"He shall not, Richie. He shall never do it, I shall not allow it." Cromwell insists, firmly, "Even to the point of my own death, I shall not let him."

I look up at him, "He has gone to get the cup."

Then Cromwell frowns, but seems to realise that I am not entirely in control of my actions, as I seem now to be able to see what Northumberland is doing, without experiencing the hideous pain of such a vision. Whether that shall last, I have no idea, but it aids us now, and that is what matters.

"Lady Elizabeth," I turn to her, still so strangely calm, and she looks at me, wide eyed in shock, "Please go to my apartments and ask my manservant for the contents of the black coffer - the papers in Greek. I have included a transcription in English with them, bring them to me. We shall be in the Hall."

And then it is gone. Whatever it was that held me so becalmed. I am still not afraid, but my head aches again, and I am rather warm, "I've lost it."

"To the Hall, then." Her Majesty says, quietly, "Edward, remain here - your safety is paramount."

"No, Mother. I must come." The boy stands up, and draws himself up as best he can, "If I am not present, then what King am I? If my Kingdom is threatened, I must be present to meet it."

Cromwell stands with him, "I shall guard him, Majesty. Even if whatever comes to us has an infernal influence, I am protected from it by the Royal Rosary that you bestowed upon me when I lay insensible, and you came to my side."

"Then let it be done." Her Majesty agrees, "Gentlemen, shall we?"

* * *

God alone knows where Northumberland has gone, for no one can find him, despite extensive searches. It can only be the failure of the conspiracy in France that has done this, for I suspect that all hinged upon its success. Perhaps Dudley planned to use it to force us to choose sides, and then could benefit from his military prowess to shoulder Somerset aside, for all know that the elder Seymour lacks the bellicosity that his younger brother held in great measure. I suspect that his alliance with Eligos - assuming that he has indeed made one - has enabled him to plan so effectively; but he had almost certainly never intended to reciprocate by bringing the Grand Duke into the mortal world. Some men really do think that they can renege upon a deal with a demon, it seems.

With little alternative, we seat ourselves in the Hall as the midday meal is served, though her Majesty eats nothing. All present are staring at the high table, for while Northumberland is absent, both Cromwell and I are seated there, Cromwell at the King's right hand, while the Queen is to the left, Somerset beside her, and then me. They do not know, however, that the raven blades are carefully concealed behind us, as we made the mistake of assuming a banished man had fled Court when he had not ten years ago, and I paid for that assumption with my own blood.

While most in the hall seem at ease, the tension amongst those of us facing outwards is almost palpable. Where is he? Has he fled? Is he in league with Eligos at all? But still he does not come. Instead, the people present dine, and converse among themselves, though I can see, with a mild shudder, that Wriothesley seems most perturbed. Perhaps he was indeed involved with Northumberland's plot, and now another conspiracy has foundered around him. If we can prove that he was involved, then he shall face the Tower. As it is, his act against Anne Askew is now known, and the King is most displeased. I imagine he believes his days at Court are well and truly numbered.

Outside, I can just hear the great Clock striking the hour of one, and Wriothesley rises from his seat: he looks most uncomfortable, as though he dreads what he is about to do.

And I know what it is. Immediately, I raise my hand, " _Lezviye k moyey ruke!_ " Even if I am not required to fight, I know that Shadowsight shall be my only protection from the chaos that shall follow.

Cromwell turns to me, startled, but then he turns to see that Wriothesley holds the silver cup in his hands - the one that we have been seeking. The one found by his cousin.

The one for which Anne died.

Shaking with horror, for what he is about to do goes even against whatever version of faith he calls his own, he lifts the cup, and begins to speak aloud,

" _Lamina Laminas_

 _Tenebrae tenebras_

 _Proditor cum dicitur sanguine ferrum,_

 _pateret aditus ad terram cadit_

 _Veni in mortale mundi, coccumque bis in bello_

 _Dico vobis, veni!_ "

Cromwell hurls one of his poniards - and it is a truly deadly aim, but it seems that the incantation grants protection until the ritual is complete, for the blade merely crashes into some barrier that we cannot see, and falls at Wriothesley's feet. His eyes wide, his reluctance clear, he tilts the cup, and empties the contents therein to the floor. No matter how much he wanted rid of us, and to claim power alongside Northumberland, he has consorted with the forces of darkness - and now he is seeing where such alliances lead.

The fluid within, thick and dark red, splatters upon the floorboards of the hall, and for a moment all is still. I know, however, that it shall not remain so, "Stand back! All of you, back to the walls!" Even if what is to emerge does not destroy all in the vicinity, I know that there shall be fighting, and thus we must protect people if we can.

Wriothesley is stepping back as well, for now horrible, malodorous red smoke is rising from the stain of red. Slowly, it merges together into a cloud, and then springs upwards in a great, whirling column that rises to the very heights of the ceiling. Around me, I hear screams, and people are already hurrying past the screens to the door in hopes of escape. Judging by the crowding there, however, I imagine that the way is already barred. Behind me, I can hear the great doors to the Watching Chamber closing, and I know that we are all now contained.

Beyond the column that still twists endlessly upwards, people are coming back into the hall, urged by men in the Blue and Grey of Northumberland's livery. They split the crowd into two groups, pushing them aside to make a pathway, as the Duke himself finally enters.

He says nothing as he approaches, passing the column and stepping forth to the high table, where we remain, unmoved. Cromwell has his swords ready now, but stands calmly beside the King, ready to fight. My sword is also ready, while I note that Lady Rochford stands beside the Queen, her knife in her hand.

"Ah, all of you armed. How gratifying." He smiles, then, "Not that it shall be any use. I had not intended to do this, but you gave me no choice."

"Ambition?" Cromwell asks, quietly, "All of this merely for ambition? Had you been with us from the beginning, then you would have been a member of the first truly great government of England, and the King would have favoured you as he has favoured me. We could be standing upon the verge of a golden age of peace and prosperity - and yet you would throw it away for personal power."

"I would throw it away to remove that damned upstart Somerset!" he spits, furious, "I would throw it away to step upon the spawn of a man who destroyed my father for no purpose other than to win plaudits from his new sycophants!"

This confuses me, and I turn to Cromwell, bemused - and then I remember; Henry, upon his accession, was eager to find some means to evade the anger of the population over his father's unpopular fiscal policies, and Northumberland's father was one of those who was thrown away to appease the mob. How old was he then? Six? Seven? To see his world so torn apart - his father destroyed at the whim of a capricious monarch who did not wish to take responsibility for the poorer parts of his inheritance. We all knew it, but assumed that his ascendancy had washed out that stain - from his perspective as much as ours. How did I not see this, if I can see all things?

"And yet, you have gained so much." I observe, "Was a Dukedom and the love of a King not enough?"

"Love? The love of a King? A King that took it upon himself to bring my father to ruin, and then pretend that it never occurred when the son who lost so much returns to his table? He cared nothing for any but himself! And a Dukedom? I am of noble stock, you snivelling pen-man!" he snaps back at me, "That was my right from the beginning, but where was the favour that should have accompanied it? Stolen from me by the 'new' men! You and your ilk have no place at a Royal council table!"

"The world is changing, my Lord." Cromwell advises, calmly, "The time of exclusivity is over - ordinary men are becoming able to shape their own destinies - not have them defined by those who are born to wealth and privilege."

"Then I shall make a new world!" he shouts back, rather wildly, "One where bastard offspring cannot overthrow a lawful ruling house and destroy those who stand in their way!"

"If you do this," my voice is impersonal again, "then you shall not benefit from it, nor shall your children, or your children's children. Power is not shared by those who claim it, as well you know. To open the door that you are about to open, is to lose all that you hoped to gain."

"LIAR!" he shouts back, "I will have it! I will avenge my father upon the tainted bastard line of Tudor!" He turns then, "I grant all present as your sacrifices, Lord Eligos! Come forth to claim them!" and then he speaks a word that I do not understand but it fills me with such a sense of horror and dread that I know it is an infernal tongue.

A sheet of flame seems to leap up through that twisting column, and all are held still as that man in armour, the one who drove his sword through me in my visions again and again, emerges from it and steps forth into the hall. The helmet is a great Frog-mouth Heaume that completely hides the face of the man within, the only view through the solid metal plate a single slit at eye level as the cap juts outwards almost like a duck's beak. I have not seen the like since I was a child, and I remember being terrified of one when I was but eight years old. It has lost none of its power to chill me, regardless of who is wearing it.

Slowly, the great head turns, taking in all around it. As the knight turns and looks at all, its sweeping gaze affects each man, or woman, that it settles upon, and their expressions begin to change from fear to a ghastly rage. Behind the column, I can see Wriothesley backing away in horror, the cup still in his hands.

The cup… _the cup_.

I am not surprised to find that that vile gaze does not affect me, for I have been protected by my sword from the very beginning. Equally, Cromwell is protected by the Royal Rosary, and thus he remains beside the King, ready to protect him from the growing tide of rage. Edward is safe, thus I am free to get that damned cup.

I lack the agility to leap over the table with elegance, so instead I step up on a chair, onto the table and hope to God that I shall not land badly as I leap off it. Northumberland is oblivious to me, watching in fascination as all around him begin to turn upon each other, their expressions vicious and angry, and I hurry past the the demon and the man who summoned him, for Eligos requires his sacrifices - presumably the bodies of those who kill each other in this room.

I was once intimidated by the man who now flees from me, eager to escape what is certain to become a ghastly slaughter once people start to use weapons, but no longer. I need that cup, and he has it.

"Give me the cup, Wriothesley." He turns to look at me, and I have never seen him so afraid; he almost cowers from me. All about us are now becoming more and more angry, but he is not - and I know that it is the cup that keeps him from the same fate. He seems to know it too, and clasps it closer.

"I need that cup to stop this. Give it to me!" I hold out my hand. Does he know that the rage of Eligos does not touch me? Does it matter if he doesn't? Instead, he backs to the wall. I can only assume that he has been told it shall protect him from what is to come.

"Is this not exciting?" I demand, "You enjoyed the suffering of Anne Askew, did you not? Now you can enjoy the torment of many as they die before your eyes!"

"I did not want this…" he is staring about, in horror, for now fights are breaking out, "I did not want this…"

"Then give me the bloody cup, Wriothesley! I need it if we are to stop this - and I cannot if you cuddle it like a newborn babe! _Give it to me_!"

And then I have my sword at his throat. God, I want to do it - I want to make him pay for what he did…but then I shall be like him. And my blood shall not be worthy…

Where did that come from?

No. I shall not kill him - he shall be punished appropriately when this is done. Instead, I press the edge forth a little, and he whimpers like a dog, before dropping the cup into my other hand. Without hesitation, I turn back to return to the high table.

Just in time to see Cromwell step forth to prevent Lady Rochford's knife from entering the Queen - going instead into his side.

* * *

In a single instant, everything seems to go horribly still for me, and I stare in absolute horror as Cromwell sinks to his knees, blood pouring from the wound that his own knife has left, for Lady Rochford has pulled it free, as Zaebos did with the wound he inflicted upon me. This cannot be happening - there is no time…I do not have access to the little black coffer in which he keeps the sovereign specific, and I do not have time to brew the cordial - even I know how to make that now. But I do not have it, and I do not have time…

Ignoring the violence around me, I run as fast as I can back to the table, forcing people aside as I do so, and I am soon beside him, "God above, Richie," he says, rather faintly, "I did not expect this - you must protect his Majesty."

"No, Thomas. No…you need me more…" I cannot leave him - no matter what is happening around us, I cannot leave him to die alone.

"The King must be protected - you alone can do it. I am safe now, for none can harm me any more."

"No!" I am shouting now, "I will not do it! Do not dare to leave me, Thomas Cromwell! Do not! I cannot let you go, do not ask it of me!" and then I am sobbing like a babe, and rocking him back and forth, for he is dying, and I cannot save him…

"It is done. We have failed, and I think we shall be better off dead if that is so." He sighs, faintly. But then I look down, and I realise that his hand is resting upon the cup, which has fallen from my hands and is now at his side. No, he does not want to die…or maybe he does, for one shall live, the other shall die; is that not what the incantation said?

Grabbing the cup, I turn to look for the Lady Elizabeth, and see that she is seated in her chair, clasping her hands to her head and rocking from side to side as she fights against the horrible compulsion to fight and kill that has driven all about her to violence - even the Queen, who is now, I note, pulling viciously at Lady Seymour's hair, while Lady Rochford is scrabbling for her knife, kicked away when she withdrew it after stabbing it into Cromwell's side.

"Lady Elizabeth!" I shout across to her, "Lady Elizabeth - the paper!"

Slowly, she seems to emerge from her self-imposed isolation, and looks across at me. Then, as though waking from a long sleep, she blinks a few times, and then hastily reaches for a pouch at her waist to retrieve the papers. How is she doing it? Despite having no protection, she has managed to force herself to ignore that dreadful compulsion that has sent all to hell around her. Only Cromwell and I are protected from it, but still she has managed not to give in. Her education at the Tudor Court has even prepared her for this, then.

She holds them out, and I take them from her, and finally her temper explodes, "What are you waiting for? Use the papers you fool!"

Drawing blood from Cromwell shall be a simple affair, for his wound is bleeding profusely. In my case, however, it is not so simple, for I must cut myself. Do it, damn you…do it…

The pain is brief, and my own blood is also falling now, mingling with that which I have collected, "Sit up more, Thomas, I need you to see this so we can read together. Come on."

Grimacing, he does so, though he is now very pale, and I do not think he shall last much longer. Oh God…oh God do not take him from me…

Furious with myself for my hopeless panicking, I hold up the cup, while Cromwell does what he can to hold the paper steady. If this does not work, then it matters not which of us was destined to die, for the pair of us shall die anyway. What, then have we to lose?

"We brothers, bonded in weapons and blood

We speak as one but we are two

We invoke the power of this cup

We demand that conflict departs

We brothers, bonded in weapons and blood

We speak as one but we are two

As life is given, we give life

As death is demanded, we give death

In our blood, all shall be made well again

God aid us and grant us strength to speak, God aid us

Let it be done."

Even as I speak, I know that Eligos is coming, aiming to reach us and cut us down before we can complete the incantation, and Northumberland is on his heels. But equally, the cup in my hands is growing warm, and a light is forming within it that is illuminating all around us in an ever brighter glow. Beside me, Cromwell is now kneeling up, as I am and we face one another, as he grips the cup with me, his hands over mine. Something is happening yes - but not just to the cup. Something is happening to us…to me…

 _As life is given, we give life. The lives of those we have saved in our fight against darkness._

 _As death is demanded, we give death. The destruction of Lamashtu, an offering against the darkness to come._

I understand it now. I see it - I see just as I was meant to. We are not required to give up our lives, not at all - the lives were granted long ago from those who live now when they should have died at a demon's hands, and the death was that of the abomination whose death set in motion the conflict that would bring Eligos to the fore.

The light surrounds us now, a great wall of blue-white that the demon cannot penetrate, though he smashes his great sword to pieces as he tries. Cromwell and I look at one another. This was why we were brought together - this is why we endured all that we did. For this moment, this one instant when our bond of brotherhood, our love for one another, would bring forth the power needed to repel a demon that claims to be the very soul of war.

Our eyes meet, and we speak as one, "Fiat."

In an instant a great flash springs from the cup, washing upwards and outwards in a single wave. As it does so, all that it touches are healed, or even in some cases, revived - for several of the combatants were murdered in the chaos. Tables are righted, spillages vanish and it is as though there was never any battle in this chamber at all.

We release the cup, which remains hovering where we held it, stand and turn to face Eligos. In all the time that he was been present, he has said nothing - not a word; and yet I know what is in his head, for he has no heart. He revels in war, and in conflict, and knows the outcome of all battles, won, lost and yet to come. He is not war itself - for that is in the hands of men, but unlike men, he does not choose not to fight.

His sword is battered to nothing, but still he looks at us with hatred and a dreadful desire for violence. He would torture me if he could, tie me to the ground and rip out my very vitals while I watched. I can see him imagining it - but he is powerless against our bonded blood, and thus I am not afraid.

Behind us, in the centre of the hall, the column of smoke has also gone, swept away with all the rest of that which was brought about by the ritual. Eligos cannot return to the Dark, and thus he has no alternative but to be consumed by the light - and nothing evil can exist within it, so he shall be no more. It is not for men to destroy demons - only Divine power can do that, and now it is present, the tide of light having washed out the evil intent that contaminated its vessel.

Slowly, gradually, that realm of light extends outwards, and moves through the demon in the armour, draining the red from the metal, and rendering it to rust, then dust. Within, the creature shrivels, squealing horribly as it does so - and even now I still cannot say what the Grand Duke of Hell once looked like, for it is now nothing more than a cinder, and then even that is gone.

For a few moments more, the light seems to flicker, but then flees back to the cup, and vanishes into it. The cup remains in the air for but a minute longer, and then falls to the ground with a clatter.

The silence seems quite shocking after the fury of the battles between those present in the hall, and all are looking about in confusion, appalled by all that has occurred. Northumberland, however, remains in the middle of the hall, his expression vicious, and his sword drawn.

"Enough, my Lord." Cromwell steps forward, his swords in his hand, "You cast your dice in the game, and lost. Thus you must face the consequences."

"Attaint me if you must, you vile black crow." He hisses back, "My sons shall know what it is to lose their father, and they shall seek you out to avenge me!"

"They will not, my Lord. For they are better men than you - their ambitions are honourable, and they shall indeed not see their family destroyed. What you lose shall be lost by you alone, for you have betrayed them as you have betrayed your King."

"So I am to be arrested, then?" he demands rather contemptuously.

"Not at my behest." Cromwell turns and bows to the King, "What is your will, Majesty?"

Slowly, King Edward rises from his throne, still pale at all that he has witnessed, "For conspiring against our Kingdom, and our loyal Subjects and servants, arrest my Lord of Northumberland, and remove him forthwith to the Tower." To my relief, he does not look happy at such an outcome. It would not do to have a vengeful King, after all. We had enough of that with his father.

"Damn you, Cromwell!" Northumberland suddenly leaps forward, "You should have gone to the Tower ten years ago, and died there! If they could not do it then, I shall do it now!"

Cromwell does not hesitate, his swords are already drawn, and he easily deflects Northumberland's broadsword. As the pair battle back and forth, I watch, and stare in bemusement - for as he fights, Cromwell's movements are becoming faster, more fluid; and, God have mercy, his hair is darker than it was when I chased after the cup. No, it was darker when we emerged from the circle of light. The grey has receded, no - it has _gone_. It is as though he has been rejuvenated by twenty years or more. If that is so, then Northumberland is truly doomed, for he is fighting the greatest Silver Sword ever to enter the Order, and one who has regained his abilities from a time when they were truly at their peak.

 _As life is given_ ….does it mean that? Have we been given life? It must be so - for not only has it healed his wound as it healed all about us, it has erased the most cruel infirmities of his advancing years. It also seems, however, to have done the same to me - for my own tiredness seems reduced, but most importantly of all, I can hear my sword's voice, and it does not pain me.

Enough speculation - I can consider that when all is done - for the fight is becoming more and more desperate as Northumberland tries all that he can to defeat the Lord Chancellor. Ambrose is standing nearby now, his expression horrified, for he has heard his father claim that he wanted to destroy the King, as is the younger John. Surely not? Their own father would not act so? But he has - and they have heard his confession from his own mouth.

My God, I had forgotten how agile Cromwell could be, even now he rolls, leaps and twists to avoid the wild cuts of Northumberland's great sword. He seems to be tireless, but Northumberland is less fortunate, for his sword is heavier, and he is tiring, and eventually he stumbles and falls to the floor.

"Enough, my Lord." Cromwell advises, only mildly winded, it seems, "There is no worth in this. Accept what you have done, and perhaps then we shall find there is mercy. You are a talented man, and you are worth more to his Majesty as a member of his council than a corpse."

All have heard him - all know that he has made that pledge, and I know - even if they do not - that he shall most assuredly keep it. We intended the new reign to be a better one than the last, where a King's displeasure could send a man to the block, and his regret that he had lost their counsel was of little use once their heads were boiled and set upon spikes at London Bridge.

His expression resentful, Northumberland stands, "Your words are lies, you damned Crow. You shall take all that I have - and then that bastard Tudor shall have won!"

The Duke's sword is still upon the floor, but instead he draws a knife, and makes to throw it, right at King Edward, who stares at him in horror, while the Regent rushes to stand in his way. Even as he releases it, Cromwell's sword is slicing through his neck - but mine is also moving, and I have ensured that I am also in the way. There is a sharp clatter as my blade catches the hand guard of the flying knife, and it is pulled from the air to strike the ground instead of the Queen.

Northumberland stands, headless, for a moment, but then topples to the floor. Bemused, Cromwell turns to me, "How did you know?"

I find it in myself to smile at him, "I see all things. For I have shadowsight."


	27. New Beginnings

**A/N:** Thank you for your reviews. Catalinadelvalle, don't worry - despite appearances, it's not over yet! Starfire201 - thanks for your comments, I'm happy to clarify! Thomas Seymour's death was the first step of a rather crude attempt to elbow Queen Jane aside as she withdrew into mourning for her brothers. Mourning practices - particularly for women - were strict, so Northumberland was aiming to remove the elder Seymour as well - leaving Jane with two brothers gone. Thus he would push in as the highest ranked Peer on the council - claiming her mourning would stop her from ruling effectively, denounce and remove Thomas and Richard, and declare himself Lord Protector. Or, at least, that was the plan. The younger Seymour was an easier prospect being outside the Palace circle; but, thanks to Kitty Howard, part two of it was uncovered, and countermeasures employed. Consequently, it all went cheerfully pear-shaped for the Duke, and he notched up his response to def-con 1 - with spectacularly messy results.

And now the tidying up begins. And yes, this time the writing's definitely on the wall for Mr Wriothesley!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

 _New Beginnings_

The silence remains - no one seems able to move, staring in disbelief at the headless body of Northumberland on the floor, and the ghastly pool of blood that has flooded from his severed neck. I still stand where I had placed myself, the knife that the Duke flung now lying a few feet away from me, while Cromwell stares at me in astonishment.

Pulling himself from his reverie, he turns to the two sons of Northumberland, his expression now sad, "Forgive me, Gentlemen. If I could have averted this, then I swear that I would have done so."

John Dudley steps forward, still shocked, "I cannot fathom it - why Father did this. He never spoke of anger - never; and he showed no ill will towards any when we were children."

"I think that there was none when you were children." I turn to them, "I think it began as mere ambition to rise as high as his father had once done, and prove to all that there was no sin in the Dudley family. That seemed so when first he began to rise at Court; but perhaps there was some degree of resentment at what he considered an unjust act - it is not difficult for darkness to seek out and find such flaws in our countenance. Thus that seed began to sprout. It seems, however, that another saw advantage in his activity as his motives began to change, and between them sprang forth a plot. Where is Wriothesley?"

All eyes are now searching, but I am not surprised that it is one of the guards who encourages him to emerge from wherever he was hiding.

"This is not the first time that you have attempted to strike against us, Mr Secretary." Cromwell says, quietly, "Did you see advantages in making another attempt?"

He does not answer - what, after all, can he say that shall not make his already dire situation worse? He knows, however, that there is no hope of regaining that which he is about to lose - for the very least he can expect is banishment from Court. There is no defiance in his face - just bitter resignation. He has tried, and failed; then tried again - and this time he shall pay for it.

But not before he has told us all. I may see all things, but that is just a figure of speech - my sword can see what is happening around us, and throw suggestions into my mind - but it cannot read the thoughts of others. At least, I hope it cannot.

The Queen is now comforting Lady Rochford, who is - quite understandably - distraught that she attempted to use her knife upon her mistress. Given that the Queen herself turned quite viciously upon Lady Seymour, who was responding in kind, she understands - but all around us are shocked at the violence that emerged from them while Eligos was among us. The King is equally shaken, but is looking at us with an expression that is most bemused - for he has now also noticed that which I saw when the fight began. Thomas Cromwell no longer looks like an old man, and, I think, neither do I. Those deep wrinkles carved around his eyes and forehead have smoothed away, and his dark hair is no longer even mildly flecked with silver. In some way, the light of that cup granted us more than the destruction of a vile demon - it granted us our youth again.

"Gentlemen," Finally the King finds some words, "Arrest Mr Wriothesley, and confine him to his apartments until we have questioned him. We shall decide then whether or not to send him to the Tower." Then he looks all about the hall, "All present shall not speak of this to any. Nor to each other. There is no sign of what occurred this day, and thus it shall be that nothing _did_ occur. Northumberland attempted an assassination, and was killed where he stood. That is all."

It is worth trying, I suppose - though I know from long experience that even overt orders by the King shall not keep the rumours from travelling. That said, I am equally convinced that most present shall find some other explanation for the emergence of a demon in their midst. Most do, after all; it is easier to do that than accept that infernal beings truly do exist - even if one believes in them.

"We shall retire to the Privy Chamber," he declares, "My Lord Cromwell, I should be grateful if you could see to the appropriate removal of the remains of our late Lord Northumberland, and their consignment to his family for burial."

"Yes, Majesty." We bow, as do all present, and watch as the King and Regent depart, while those still present in the hall also make their escape. None want to be in the same place as a decapitated corpse.

John and Ambrose remain, however, and their expressions are very strange - on the one hand, the man before them killed their father in front of their eyes; but on the other, their father had attempted to assassinate their King.

"I beg your forgiveness, my Lord," Cromwell says to the elder brother, sadly, "I would have given all not to have been obliged to do what I did."

"I still do not understand what changed him." Dudley says, his eyes anguished, "I appreciate that he conspired with the Secretary - but to raise a demon? To try to kill the King?"

"I don't think that was his plan." Cromwell sighs, looking to me and seeing me nod in agreement, "Not in the initial stages. I think he merely wished to manoeuvre himself into a strong position upon the council, only to find that those places had been taken by my Lords Somerset, Leighs and myself. Had he accepted that we occupied those positions upon merit, then he might well have contributed greatly to the council, and thus gained a position of equal trust as ours. Alas, he was not patient enough to do so - and began to resent us."

"I imagine Mr Wriothesley shall apprise us of the details that we do not yet know." I add, "Though we have found from past experience that to consort with those who promise infernal aid to achieve a plan affects those with whom they conspire in unexpected, and often most contrary ways to all that they have been before." I have not forgotten what happened to the Boleyns, after all.

"I shall summon some retainers to remove the body and ensure that it is prepared for burial." John says, quietly, "I do not hold either of you responsible for this - I assure you. If it was vengeance that brought us to this pass, then it shall end here and now. There shall be no more revenge. It has brought nothing but death."

Cromwell bows to him, "I have no doubt that your counsel shall be welcome at the Council table, my Lord. Perhaps we can, at last, set aside all differences between those of noble birth and those of political skill to ensure that England shall never again face conspiracies such as this. But in this moment, I offer my deepest condolences - for, again, I would not have wished things to end as they have ended."

It does not take long to remove the corpse, and several unfortunate drudges have been summoned from the servants' halls to clean up the blood. The great stain that grew a column of smoke was scoured away by the light of the Jerusalem Chalice, but this was spilled after the light had gone.

"When shall we speak to Wriothesley?" I ask, as we turn back to walk through to the offices.

"As soon as we may. I do not think him brave enough to seek a quick way out of what is to come - but I also think it unwise to act rashly against him. I saw how much he dreaded what was pressed upon him, and that in itself shall haunt the rest of his days. Thus I do not think it worthwhile to proclaim him a traitor and stand him on a scaffold. Instead, we should remove all of his court titles, and send him back to his estates to live out his days in obscurity."

I smirk, a little spitefully, "He shall _hate_ that."

Cromwell looks at me, and shakes his head at my spurt of malice before smiling back, "Is that not the point?"

* * *

To describe the atmosphere in the chamber as 'brittle' would be a true understatement. I have no doubt that the King would have wished to be in this room with us - but the Regent dissuaded him. Instead, Cromwell and I are present, and also Mr Paget, who is intending to act as some form of neutral party, for I have no doubt that the man who sits opposite shall claim that we have an ulterior motive if there is no one other than us in the room.

Wriothesley looks less fearful now, and more resentful. Now that both Eligos and Northumberland are gone, he has no one to fear - or at least he considers that to be so - and so he is quite convinced that we shall not harm him to the degree that we might once have done. Cromwell might well have sent five men to the block, but he could only do it because of the King's agreement. It is quite certain that the Regent, and King Edward, shall not countenance such a thing again. He has no idea that Cromwell has no intention of doing such a thing, even if he could persuade the King to allow it.

"Did you approach Northumberland, or did he approach you?" Paget asks, quietly.

"He came to me - at my invitation." Wriothesley answers, rather contrarily, "I saw his resentment from my table in the Council chamber, and I knew he would be pleased to aid me in removing…obstacles."

Paget's eyebrows rise, "Obstacles?"

"He means us." I advise, calmly, "It is not the first time."

Wriothesley leans forward, his eyes fixed upon Paget, "Imagine years of diligent service, Mr Paget. Endless days of being useful, doing all that is demanded of you. And seeing others gain while you do not. Men of lesser state than yourself, who should be less than you, but are instead more."

He does not raise his voice - but the resentment could not be more overt. I can understand it - for that was my view before I woke at my desk in this very palace, and found a man bleeding to death before me. I was fortunate; I found a higher purpose, and my world changed entirely. Would I have been the same had it been Wriothesley in the offices that night and he had made the choice that I made? God help me; yes. I think I would.

"At what point did Eligos become involved?" Cromwell asks, rather more incisively.

Wriothesley blanches at the name, "There was a tale in my family of one wedded to war who would consort with those of high birth to grant them the greatest of rewards - it was a story that we were told to ensure our good behaviour, for the children of our family knew that, if we did not obey our tutors, then we would be given to the man in red armour, and he would pour out our blood."

"Charming." I mutter. We are all the same, I think; what parent has not threatened children with dire consequences for an act of disobedience? But that? God have mercy.

Cromwell, on the other hand, looks quite cynically amused, "Until you have shared time with a German youth, you know nothing of deadly creatures that punish children."

"I did not think it to be real, but there was a book in my father's library which detailed a summoning, and we were shown it. Thus we were fearful that he would do so."

"I presume, then, that the summoning you were shown was the one that you performed?"

He nods, "Though the blood was not mine. It was his."

"Why?" I ask, though I think I can guess.

"Lord Eligos does not harm the one whose blood was used to summon him, or the one who speaks the words of the summoning. Thus he was protected, as I was - though how it was the you and my Lord Cromwell were not…"

"I imagine you were filled with anticipation of watching us kill one another in that outbreak of rage?"

Wriothesley turns away, and will not look at me. Yes, he was - though the horror that was unfolding around him must have tempered it to some degree.

"I do not understand how it is that you were unaffected. I had read the summoning, and the blood was Northumberland's."

"That is none of your concern, Mr Wriothesley." Cromwell says, coldly, "You know nothing of us, and thus you found yourself helpless against two men who could end your plans. Now - tell me how Northumberland came to know of this Eligos."

"That, I cannot answer, my Lord." He admits, "It was his suggestion - but I knew how to summon the demon, so he prevailed upon me to do so. But it would not work - and I discovered that a vessel was needed."

"The Jerusalem Chalice." Cromwell confirms.

"I could not leave court to find it, so I set my men to work upon it. It was tracked to a troupe of players who were performing in a house of a friend of my Cousin, so I set him to find it and bring it to me. But then Northumberland said that there was a woman seeking the cup as well, and that she had found a means to repel the demon. Thus we needed to remove her."

I feel the pressure of Cromwell's foot upon my own, as I tense to leap at the blasted man. Is that what he calls the horrors he and his Lord inflicted upon her? Removal?

Wriothesley glares at us, "I think I shall not speak of this any further. Either send me to the Tower or send me away. I care not which."

"That is a matter for his Majesty," Paget advises, "Your actions are reprehensible, for you have attempted to destroy two of the King's highest officials, and come within an ace of bringing about the King's death. As you are well aware, such an act is treason - and the means bringing about the death of a traitor is well known to all."

His eyes widen, fearful of a fate that the late King once decreed for me.

"Return him to his quarters," Cromwell turns to the guard assigned to ensure the former Secretary does not flee or attempt to take his own life, "We shall put his case to the King."

* * *

The Regent sighs, and looks across the Council table at the assembled men, and the Lady Elizabeth, "I had hoped that this situation would never arise, Gentlemen. I have discussed the matter with his Majesty, and we are in agreement that there has been enough horror thanks to this conspiracy - and we must start as we mean to go on. Thus, Mr Wriothesley shall not be executed or imprisoned. Instead, he shall be dismissed from Court in disgrace. His family, however, shall not suffer for his act - and the honours withdrawn from him shall be restored to his son upon his death."

All turn to Edward, who nods his assent, and then there is a murmuring of agreement. To a man like Wriothesley, the humiliation of his disgrace shall be a far worse punishment than anything that we could devise.

Somerset rises to his feet, "Additionally, I am pleased to report that the lamentable death of Madame Anne Askew for heresy has spurred the Commons to reconsider their opposition to the Religious Settlement. It is my hope that the bill shall pass in the next few days, and thus shall be ready for your Assent before Christmastide, Majesty."

"That is excellent news, your Grace." The King smiles, obviously pleased, "I could not save the lady, thus I am determined that no other shall endure her fate. Not ever again. It is the only tribute and apology that I can now grant her - and thus I wish to bring it about."

None of us can guarantee that his will shall prevail - but from the faces of all present, I think we all intend to try. If we can learn to stop destroying each other over something so small as whether or not bread becomes flesh, then perhaps we shall have more time to engage in trade, diplomacy and peace. It is, after all, far more affordable than war - and even if we do not succeed, we can at least claim that we tried.

It feels most strange to be back in the offices again - with Wriothesley gone. Much as he intimidated me, I know that we shall suffer for his absence; his efficiency was remarkable, and I cannot begin to imagine how we shall replace him; until I see that Cecil is present. When did he get here? Intrigued, I cross to his desk.

"William?"

He looks up, "Ah, Richard. Forgive me, I did not have time to advise you - my Lord Cromwell has decided that it is time for me to emerge from the Library and take up a formal post in the Government." His expression becomes embarrassed, as he can see I did not know it, "I was not supposed to be here yet - but I had some papers to bring up from Whitehall, so I came early."

"There is nothing to forgive - I think it is a wise idea, for you have answered a dilemma for me; how to replace Wriothesley."

"Is it always like this?" he asks.

"What?"

"The sense that a momentous act has occurred - and yet all seems unchanged."

Ah yes, that feeling of anticlimax. Yes, I know that well.

"I fear so, William - but it is better that way, for if all that has happened passes unnoticed, then we have succeeded in keeping our work in the shadows where it belongs."

"And the continued safety of the world is our reward?"

"Exactly." I smile at him, "Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and sulk in my Lord Cromwell's office until he apologises for not telling me you were coming."

* * *

I am, again, amazed by the ability of the Court as a collective group to forget or explain away strange things that they do not understand. The arrival of Eligos was no more than trickery, it seems: part of a remarkable conspiracy to remove the King and replace him with the Prince Henry, who has been most chastened by this discovery. The realisation that he could be the focus for dreadful insurrection has frightened him a great deal, and he has turned to his mother for reassurance, having previously disdained her in favour of a man who wished to make use of him.

The King has celebrated his eleventh birthday, and is continuing to become more involved with the decisions that shall one day be entirely his, while young Hal is now spending much of his time with the Dudley brothers - who have proved to be as trustworthy as we thought, learning more about diplomacy and the operations of government. He is no longer eager to take that which is his Brother's but is instead more willing to understand what he can do as a Prince.

Any last objections to the Religious Settlement have been gradually quelled, though Bonner has avoided removal from his post through extensive grovelling, and adding his name to those who have passed the bill through Parliament. His Majesty should be able to grant his assent by Christmastide, which is no more than a week away.

Perhaps the strangest thing is that no one at all has commented upon the remarkable change that has affected Cromwell since Northumberland's demise. To any at court who have known him for a long time it could hardly be missed - but nonetheless, no one comments that he now appears as young as he did when he first came to Henry's court. I have seen it in myself, too - though less overtly, for I was younger than he to begin with. Even the raveners that have occasionally shown themselves have been defeated as easily as they were that first time I saw him fight.

My own skills seem to be as fluid as they have ever been - but the strangest thing for me is the discovery that I am now, at last, able to bear the weight of the visions and knowledge that Shadowsight shows me. They no longer assault me without warning - but instead I can call upon them, and thus I know things that I never knew before. For I have Shadowsight.

I am still not entirely certain how far this ability extends, but I know that I cannot hear what people are thinking, which is most fortunate; for, given what passes through my mind on occasion, I very much do not wish to hear what is in the minds of others. I think I shall find it most useful in our ongoing battle with those lesser demons that still move amongst us - particularly now that the higher level demons are still recovering from the enormous war that allowed Eligos to claim the right to come amongst us. Perhaps another shall come in time - but if we are no longer here to fight it, then I shall endeavour to ensure that those who follow us are as prepared as they can be.

Despite the fact that he is no longer in danger of assassination, Somerset has decided that he shall still go back to Wolf Hall to spend Christmastide with his wife, as he had planned. Thus the Queen and her sons shall preside over the Court together, with the Lady Elizabeth at their side. The degree of self control that she displayed during that appalling fight in the Hall was utterly remarkable, to the point that the Regent is giving serious thought to asking us to train her in some fighting techniques, so that she can stand alongside Lady Rochford as Queen's bodyguard. As she seems monumentally disinterested in marriage, it shall give her a purpose, at least.

As though we were not busy enough, the King decrees that we shall spend Christmastide at Whitehall, and once again the offices are a mass of hurrying Clerks, packing and filing the enormous accumulation of papers that we inevitably seem to generate. John is equally busy packing my belongings, while I busy myself with the contents of my own desk. After the awfulness of the year that has passed, the industry eases my spirits somewhat, and I find myself looking forward to the season rather more than I usually would, even though I cannot leave this year to return to my family. It is, after all, my turn to guard the Court; so I have written letters to most of my family, though there is one left, for I have not completed my letter to Agnes. I shall do that tonight, and it shall be dispatched in the morning.

* * *

We depart Hampton Court in the chill of an early morning while the frost lies thick upon the ground, and I am once more grateful for the woollen coif that encloses my head beneath my bonnet, even though it makes me look far older than I now appear, and Cromwell laughs at me. Better than than cold ears, I think.

"Shall Gregory be joining you at Austin Friars this year, Thomas?"

"No, he and Elizabeth have been invited to spend the season at Wolf Hall with the Somersets, as Lady Somerset has not seen her sister in law for some time, and they are fond of one another. I shall, however, have plenty of company, for there is another generation of little ones surrounding me. I suspect that there shall be far more comment over my apparent rejuvenation there than there has been at Court."

Our conversation remains on such light matters, for there are no conspiracies to combat, no plots, and no great matters of an infernal nature to trouble us. I had thought it would be like this for the rest of my days after we defeated Lamashtu - but apparently not. In time, another demon shall rise to take their chance; but we shall be there to meet it, I think.

"Have you heard from the House, Thomas?" I ask, for I have heard nothing since he told me that the High was dying. It seems a long time ago that I was told so.

"It seems that he rallied somewhat after I was advised of his condition," Cromwell admits, "though none expect him to make a full recovery. Indeed, they think it likely that he shall not last long into next year - but nonetheless, the Masters have elected a replacement, for he is still too sick to serve. That replacement shall not take up the robes of the Grand Master, nor shall his identity be revealed to us until after the current incumbent has passed - but nonetheless he is now serving, for decisions must be made on a day to day basis."

"That must be difficult."

"It is not the first time it has happened, Richie. Grand Masters remain in post until they die - they do not resign or retire. Should the High become incapacitated, but still live; the next is chosen, and works anonymously until it is time for him to receive the Robes. If nothing else, it teaches the one who is selected that they serve the Order, not the other way about."

A light drizzle has begun to mist the air by the time we arrive in the Deal Yard, and hand our horses over to the grooms. We are in our usual quarters again, and John has already unpacked my belongings. Thus I am free to rest beside the fire and doze lightly, until we gather in the hall to sup. Whitehall has always been my favourite of the palaces, and feels almost like a home to me in some respects. I am glad to be here, rather than at Placentia; for now that Cecil is working as the King's Secretary, he has not been back to Grant's Place for some time, and I am keen to visit there myself in order to spend some time alone with the books. I have missed that.

Over the next few days, the rest of the Court straggles in, so I take the opportunity to visit my Library, and examine the work that Cecil has done. God, he is thorough - and I am most impressed with his extension to the great Index. He shall make an excellent Second, so we must hope that he is granted a Silver Sword of equal talent. That said, being so rejuvenated, there is no urgency now for Cromwell to consider retirement, and I am hopeful that we shall share a goodly number of years yet before he departs and leaves me to induct his successor.

By the time I return to the Palace, the King and the Regent have arrived, and the servants are working hard to ensure that the place is decorated with fragrant pine and fir, while a multitude of candles glisten and drive away both the darkness and the chill to some degree. Tomorrow is the last day of work before the Holiday begins, and his Majesty shall finally grant his assent to our Act of Religious Union, hopefully ending the strife that has caused so much misery, and sent too many innocent souls to the fire. I strongly suspect that at least one Papal Bull shall issue condemning such tolerance of the Reformed Faith - but one only has to see the troubles in France, where reformers are still harassed, to know that it is the right thing to do. Iberia has done as we have, and long before we did it - and the people have come to accept it, thereby no longer setting neighbour against neighbour. I hope that it shall be the same here - the first hints of it are in tomorrow's midnight Mass, which shall be conducted partly in Latin, and partly in English.

Perhaps the strangest phenomenon for me is that I no longer have to hunt for infernal creatures. I know where they are, and I can find them, despite not sensing ichor. No other man can do it, and it is only granted to me thanks to my bond with Shadowsight. Thus I am not obliged to spend entire nights wandering the passageways, but can instead concentrate, and allow my sword to tell me where they are - not that there are many yet, for we have only just arrived.

Cromwell is away from the Court for only three days, and returns the day after St Stephen's Day in a most pleasant mood, "There are several youngsters now in the house, Richie," He smiles, cheerfully, "and their japes were most enjoyable. It has been a good season, for I feel more at peace than I have in many a year, and I do not have any great matter hanging over my head."

"I am sure the coming year shall remedy that, Thomas." I remind him, ruefully, "Circumstances seem most adept at flinging unexpected challenges at us."

Sometimes I really should be more careful of what I say. The very next morning, my words come back to haunt me, as Baxter is awaiting us in Cromwell's office with a letter from Milan. After months of quiet illness, the Grand Master of the Order of the Silver Swords has finally passed away. Once all funerary customs are complete, his final wishes shall be communicated to the Order - and it is absolutely certain that one of his last acts shall be to have recalled Cromwell to Milan.

What did he say? If I was in danger, he would not go. If the King's place at court was not secure, he would not go. But I am safe, and the King is more secure than he has ever been.

Thus, I fear, he shall go.

* * *

I spend the next few days feeling most subdued, and I cannot even quell my poor mood with work, for the holiday shall continue until the feast of Epiphany. It is foolish of me, I know; for I do not yet know whether Cromwell shall be recalled to Milan or not - but it is known that the High wanted him to do so, and I cannot believe that he will have changed his mind in the interim.

Does Cromwell know? Of course he does - he must; he has known me for over ten years, and we have been as brothers for much of that time. Even though we have not had confirmation that he shall be recalled, he knows that it is likely, and we have argued over it already, for I must be left behind when he leaves, and I do not want him to go. In some ways, however, I think he does not wish to leave me behind either.

We shall celebrate Epiphany this evening with a grand feast, and it is rumoured that the King intends to bestow honours to mark the festive season. As his father was inclined to do likewise on occasion, I am not surprised - it is almost certain that he shall formally grant the Dukedom of Northumberland to John Dudley, for his father's treason would have rendered it automatically forfeit. I also assume that he shall bestow some honours upon his younger brother, for the two have indeed reached a true rapprochement, and are closer than they have ever been. As for the rest, it is likely that people who are not within the Seymour circle shall now be appointed to the closer court appointments that have - until the plot was foiled - been held only by immediate confidants. Perhaps there shall even be an announcement of an engagement, even though the King is still a mere boy. It would be most surprising if no overtures of a matrimonial kind had been made at this point.

I take my seat in the Hall alongside the other Privy Councillors, while the Court gathers at the tables according to their rank. It is, of course, my status as both Councillor and Lord Privy Seal that permits me to sit here. Were I still a mere Baron, I would instead be far further down the hall. Paget joins me, looking slightly smug, while I note that Cromwell is conspicuous by his absence. It is not like him to be late, and I wonder if he has been granted the honour of a seat at the high table this evening, and thus he shall enter with the Royal family.

It seems that I am right. As trumpets blast out a fanfare, the King, his mother at his side and his brother and half-sister behind him, enter solemnly, while Somerset and his wife - just returned from Wiltshire - are behind him, and Cromwell walks with Cranmer to the rear. All take their places at the high table, and the King stands to greet the guests, "Welcome all!"

His voice is stronger these days, though I can hear a slight squeak that suggests it is soon to deepen as all boys' voices do as they become men, "Our warmest greetings. Before we begin, we wish to grant honours to those who have served us well over the year past, as our late Lord was pleased to do."

Now I shall see if my guesses were right. As I expected, Prince Henry is bestowed with the Order of the Garter, as Northumberland's death has led to a vacancy within that august band, and granted the Dukedom of Kent. It is likely that he shall begin some form of apprenticeship in diplomacy in the coming year to prepare him for Diplomatic service, and he is clearly most pleased with his elevation.

Dudley is indeed restored to the forfeited Dukedom of Northumberland, while Ambrose is granted the Earldom of Wessex in his own right, which surprises me rather, for the family used to hold the Earldom of Warwick. Perhaps the King intends to grant that to Robert, should he return here from Milan.

Paget is knighted, while several others are appointed to posts of great value that were once held by Seymour loyalists. Those who have relinquished such posts have largely done so voluntarily, fortunately - though a couple were bought off with peerages, I think.

"It was also our hope to grant honours to one more of our most loyal Servants - but he has dissuaded us once again from doing so. He has not, however, turned us from our final decision. It is our pleasure today to call forth Baron Rich of Leighs."

I was not at all surprised to hear that Cromwell had declined a Dukedom again, but to hear my name gives me a thrill of shock, and I rise to approach the King, and kneel as he directs me to do.

"For your diligent service to our father and to us, we bestow upon you the Earldom of Warwick. Arise, your Grace."

I think my eyes are quite staring from my head as I stand again and I can see the pleased smile upon Cromwell's face, for he was quite remorseful that his refusal of the Dukedom when it was first mooted led to a lack of an honour for me. Not this time, then. If I did not have the appropriate rank to sit at the table where I sit; then now, I do.

"I am overcome with gratitude, Majesty." The words sound so utterly trite - but I mean them absolutely, "I shall work with all my heart to ensure that I serve you with unstinting determination."

I withdraw to my seat again, as the King invites all to sup, and try to take in the suddenness of my elevation. What a shame there shall be no coronations in my lifetime - for now I am entitled to wear a coronet. Never mind. I should rather the King grow to manhood and rule well, than have to obtain a coronet for myself.

After we have dined, the tables are set back to the walls while the feast is voided and we partake of sweetmeats elsewhere. As she did when we were at Kenilworth, the Regent turns to Cromwell to take her about the floor, and the two participate in a merry galliard, while the Lady Elizabeth partners the King, and the Somersets dance together with a degree of closeness that I have not seen between them in some time. I, on the other hand, am more than content to sit to the side, for my hopeless inability to dance is well known, and I would not wish to inflict my appalling incompetence upon a partner.

As I sit back, I look upwards towards the fine ceiling, and frown in confusion, for a white hawk appears to be flying above our heads. It swoops back and forth awhile, and then I blink - and it is gone. It means something, I think - but the sense I felt when I saw it was not malign, so I shall set it aside for now, and discuss it with Cromwell in the morning.

Tonight, however, I am tired, and I have eaten too much again. Thus, I think, I shall retire to bed, and return to my desk on the morrow.

* * *

Cromwell is most intrigued by my vision, "A hawk, you say? Flying over the assembled Court?"

"Do you see a meaning to it?" I ask, "It ties to another vision I had while we were preparing for the departure of Robert Dudley. I saw him as a man, bearing the hawk blades."

"It does indeed, then. I have heard from the House on a number of matters - one of them being that he has shown a degree of talent that is quite remarkable; though he had the advantage of a suitable education before he arrived there. They think it likely that he shall be ready to try for blades as soon as some are available. Given that the most recently retired Silver Sword is Hawk, who was an itinerant in Koblenz until recently, I suspect he shall win them."

"Truly - after so short a time?"

"Why not? Remember that I was obliged to learn a great deal more, but equally, no swords became available until I had been at the House for four years. There is no reason why he should not try for them so soon after he entered the House - he was able to battle a ravener without aid - and only required assistance to dispatch it. It may be that he shall prove to be a greater Silver Sword than I."

"Even you?" I ask, surprised.

"Even me." He smiles, "I am not the be-all and end-all, Richie. Much of my fame rests not so much upon my skills as upon the truth that we have lived through momentous times, and it was laid upon us to protect England in her hour of need." His smile becomes a little skewed, "And it all rested upon a single choice."

"In what way? Your choice to climb the outside of the walls to reach your gauntlets?"

"Not at all, Richie. It was your choice - to aid me, rather than let me die. When I fell at your feet, I could not have reached the sovereign specific, and thus I would have died, would I not? You could have walked away, and perhaps even have benefitted from my passing in taking my place. But you did not - you stayed, and you aided me."

"Come now, Thomas - it could not have rested only upon that. Had you died, another would have taken your place."

"But they would not have been prepared, nor would any Second appointed to aid them. Your act that night was a single choice that changed more than you can imagine."

I have no idea what to say to that, but Cromwell has more to say, "Which is just as well, for the High's instructions have been issued, and his replacement formally appointed - a Catalan by the name of Salvador Vaqué. He has endorsed the instruction from his predecessor, and has again asked that I return to Milan."

No. Not now - not yet…we have been granted time to work together for years to come. How can the men cloistered in that House in Milan understand that there is no need for him to go back yet?

"Richie, I am going to obey the summons." His voice is gentle, for he knows that I dread this, "But not immediately. Until my replacement has been chosen and inducted into the Court, I shall stay. But there is something else that you should know."

What now? I look at him helplessly.

"The High has decreed that Seconds should receive a degree of training commensurate to that granted to Wolsey when he was prepared to work with me. There is only one man that they would want to do it; and that man is you. His instructions are not directed solely at me. I shall return to Milan to take up my place as a Master, while you shall travel there to establish a Sister House for Seconds."

"Me? Why me?" Why am I asking such a stupid question? I know that my exploits have won me an astonishing degree of reverence in Milan.

"No Second before you has learned what you have learned, experienced what you have experienced, or fought as you have fought. You are remarkably organised and quick-minded - who better than you to direct the training of young men and women to support the Order as you have supported me?"

To my surprise, the idea fascinates me; not only the opportunity to ensure that no Second ever finds themselves facing the troubles I endured - but also to create a network of libraries, an exchange of information…archives that all can see…God - archives. I need archivists…

Cromwell can see that I am beset with ideas, and his smile widens, "So, when do you want to start?"

* * *

 **A/N:** A non-spoiler-y note: for those who enjoy reading of the exploits of Thomas and Richard in the English Court, this might be the Station on the Story Train where you'll want to disembark. There's more to come - but, as this chapter has revealed, it won't be in the Palaces. If you're happy to follow them wherever they go, however, then - on we go!


	28. His Majesty the King

**A/N:** Thank you for your reviews - very much appreciated. I'm glad that the confrontation was a success! I shall think about the possibility of continuing the tale through the adventures of the Hawk, Blurgle, though it'll be very strange to do so without the gruesome twosome. The Lady of which you speak won't be an 'official' Second - not that that'll stop her, of course - but there will be another female second coming up, though that will be some way off, yet.

In answer to your question, Catalinadelvalle, I'm in the process of writing something else in response to a challenge from AllegoriesInMediasRes which centres around Anne Boleyn - that's well under way, though I normally don't start posting until a story's finished, to make sure that I actually _do_ finish it!

Anyway - onwards and downwards! We have a couple more chapters in England as the Hawk arrives and settles in. Then it's off on their continental jaunt - which won't be an easy ride, of course...

* * *

 **PART FOUR**

 **The Spires of Milan**

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 _His Majesty the King_

Many years ago, when I was still a youth, I can recall a conversation with the late Sir Thomas More. I forget the drift of it after so much time - but one comment stands out to me, for it mildly offended me at the time; but now I wonder how perceptive he truly was.

"I have seen you at work, Mr Rich," He said, "Truth be told, you are wasted as a lawyer, for you would make an excellent teacher."

I no longer recall my reply - but I do remember feeling most disgruntled that he considered me fit for nothing more than schooling boys in their letters and arithmetic. How ironic, then, that I am now invited to do exactly what More thought to be my better calling. I suppose it is the opportunity to find out whether he was right.

Had I listened to him, then perhaps he might still live - though I think it unlikely given his principles and refusal to compromise upon them. If I had not been available to trap him, then I have no doubt that Cromwell would have been pushed to find another way. I would not, of course, be burdened with regret - but then, I would also not be the Second to the Raven, nor would I be Lord Privy Seal, and nor would I be Earl of Warwick.

The victuals set before me to break my fast have long since been eaten, and I have finished the small ale, so I settle myself in front of the fire, for the weather is cold, and I have much to think about.

It has been a little more than a year since I was widowed, and I have a son to whom I can pass my titles and lands. Those of my children who are too young to marry are safely residing with their siblings, and I know that they are contented - for they see little of me, and thus do not miss me overly much. I could do it. I could leave England, and take on a new task.

But do I truly wish to? Do I want to leave all that I have ever known; my home, my family - to travel overseas to a city I have never seen, and all but start again? What more is there for me to do here? Northumberland is gone; his sons have proved themselves to be utterly trustworthy and honest, and there are plans to bring the two youngest men of the family to Court as well in the next few months. I had no idea there were two more sons – but then they were not at Court, so it would not have occurred to me to notice.

Young Prince Hal has returned to the family fold. The rest of the Council is a good balance of old and new blood, and the horrors that unfolded when one of their number attempted to take more than his due has chastened them a great deal. The King is still only eleven, but he is learning well, and the first approaches from overseas courts on behalf of young daughters have begun to arrive. Obviously it would still be a proxy marriage at this time - but the Queen is intent on ensuring that the union shall be more than mere convenience for dynastic purposes. Both sides must be happy, for she was most happy with King Henry. She was also fortunate in that she learned to navigate the marriage, and bore him two sons to continue his line - as well as turning a blind eye to his infidelities. She had, after all, first come to him when he was married to another wife.

No - the need for us to be present politically is not what it was. Cecil is proving to be an excellent politician as much as a Second in training. I think I have little left to teach him - for he has no desire to learn to fight. Moreover, I do not think it likely that he shall need to do so; I was only called to carry a blade because of the times we faced - and it is equally possible that future threats to England's peace shall be political as much as infernal in nature.

I have not yet given Cromwell a formal answer as to whether I shall depart with him to Milan, but I shall need to soon, for he must send his own answer to the High. Only then shall the process begin to appoint his successor, and we shall prepare the way for his arrival. It shall be easier for us, of course, for the Queen already knows of the Order, and thus shall willingly welcome the new appointee, whoever he might be.

Once our decision is communicated, we shall not be required to depart immediately, of course - there is much to be done to lay the ground for those who shall step into our places as members of the Order, and as members of the Council. Our affairs must be settled, and we shall need time to cross Europe. I think it likely that we shall not reach Milan until well into the year, if not at its end - or longer.

The prospect of such a journey is quite exhilarating, for I have never left England. Perhaps once I might have been required to had we gone to war - for someone would have been required to control the purse strings - but as we never did so, the opportunity never arose. I speak some French, and even if I did not, Cromwell is fluent in both French and the Lombardy tongue of Milan, so I would not be floundering helplessly in a land where I do not understand a word that is being said to me.

Even as I look into the flames, I shake my head at my procrastination. Why am I doing this? I know that I shall go - for where my Silver Sword goes, I shall willingly follow. I have done all that I could ever have wanted to here, and there is so much more to do and to learn if I move on. I have never sought adventure - but instead stood helplessly as it sought me. Perhaps it is my turn to do the seeking.

"Am I doing the right thing, Eminence?" I ask, suddenly.

 _Why are you asking me? It is your decision._ Wolsey snaps back, rather shortly, _but know that I cannot come with you - for even if you carry the coffer, its call shall not be strong enough. It is the places in which I once lived that I am truly able to come to you - the coffer aids me in anchoring myself here, for it is not a room that I ever occupied._

"You shall not come with us?" to my surprise, the thought appals me, for he has aided us through so much. Ironic, then, that there was a time when I saw him as a paragon whose talent I could not hope to match, and I wished that he had not been sent to us.

 _Sentiment, Rich?_ He asks, his tone amused, _I was charged with keeping you from making mistakes, or aiding you when that which fought you did so on a front that you could not combat, but the need to do so is gone. There is nothing left that I can teach you - and the purpose for which you were brought together is ended. Now you are free to choose your destinies, and there is no role in such an enterprise for me._

"We shall not leave for some time yet, Eminence. You have not got rid of me that easily."

 _But you shall go. Both of you - for your duty now is to pass on what you have learned. Both Lamashtu and Eligos have failed thanks to you, and thus those who might attempt to take their place are fearful, for there are men who can prevent it. Even if you are no longer in England, you shall ensure that those who are can battle any who might come against them_.

Yes, I shall go. It was a decision I made at the very moment that I was told that I could. This pointless dithering is more out of habit than out of uncertainty. Who, after all, does not fear the unknown?

With little reason to remain in my chambers, I make my way to Cromwell's office, to find that Cecil is already present, having been formally appointed now as King's Secretary to replace the disgraced Wriothesley.

"I shall need to write to the High before the end of the day, Richie." Cromwell prompts, quietly. Jesu - does he really think that I am wrestling with this decision? Perhaps he does.

"Forgive me, I have been wasting time when there was no need. Please advise the High that I would be glad to accept his offer. I look forward to discussing it with him."

Cromwell smiles, relieved, "I am glad of it, my friend. Truly glad - for the one thing that concerned me when first I was advised of my recall to Milan was the fact that I would be obliged to leave you behind. You were not the only one of us who wept at the thought - though my tears were more private than yours, I think."

"It is all rather a moot point at present, is it not?" I add, "For we cannot depart until a replacement is appointed and inducted at Court."

"Indeed," Cromwell agrees, "Though I am told that the Trials have commenced in Milan - the first stages are already underway."

"First stages?" Cecil asks, intrigued.

"Of course - we are tested on our learning, our physical prowess and manners, William. Only those who pass all of these tests are permitted to take the final trial, which shall earn the Hawk blades. I am informed that there are twelve young men participating."

"Twelve?" I am shocked; twelve claimants for one set of swords?

"It has been some years since the last set of blades were retired, Richie. I am not in the least surprised that there are so many. Some of them may well have been waiting for a number of years. Those who reach the final trials and do not succeed, but have performed well, are given two more opportunities to make the attempt. Normally, this would be the youths who were not the first to reach the gauntlets that are held in the highest tower - but were not apprehended by the masters during the trials. Only those who are caught, or who are too far away when the trial ends, are considered to have failed."

"Caught?" Again, Cecil does not know the procedure of the Trials.

"In the final trial of the House, the gauntlets of the retiring Silver Sword are set upon a table in a chamber at the top of the highest tower. The approach can be made via multiple routes for much of the way, but the final approach is along a corridor with sequences of hiding places. That is by far the hardest part of the test, for it is patrolled by a Master. Should one pass through it undiscovered, there are no more obstacles. All one must do is climb the stairs to the chamber, and - if the gauntlets are unclaimed - claim them."

"How did you pass?"

I smile to myself as Cromwell sits back in his chair, "I climbed the outside wall of the building, and thus did not use it."

Cecil's eyes widen, as he continues, "It was a rash act upon my part - though I was well practised in doing so, for I was a rambunctious youth who engaged in many japes and adventures while within the halls of the House. You might not think it so to look at me now, but I was one half of a pair of youths whom the Masters called 'the northern rogues'."

"Is it likely that any other youth shall try?"

"I truly hope not - for on that same day, my dearest friend, in his determination to reach the other pair of gauntlets ahead of another youth that he despised, attempted to do the same as I had done. He lost his footing and fell to his death. If it has not been forbidden, then I shall ensure that it is once I have returned there. My act was madness - even though it gained me the Raven blades."

Cecil is not sure what to say, so I speak for him, "So we must wait. How long are the first stages of the trials likely to take?"

"A week, or thereabouts. The written and spoken tests are in at least four languages: English, French, Spanish, German for choice, though the Lombardic dialect of Milan is also preferred, as well as Flemish. All are required to master four, though I was able to succeed in all six, for I had spent time on the continent, and made many friends who spoke all the languages."

"That cannot have been easy." I muse.

"Indeed it was not." He agrees, "Each day, the language to be spoken at all times was changed. You did not know what it would be until the High spoke his first address as we broke our fasts. As soon as he had done so, all were expected to communicate only in that language for the rest of the day - unless they were newly arrived and had not yet had time to commence learning it. Those who had, however, would find themselves birched if they spoke any other tongue that day. The only exception was if learning one of the other languages. To avoid overly confusing the students, all languages were taught through the medium of Latin, for its structure was conducive to the learning of other tongues."

"And what follows?" Cecil asks, fascinated.

"Those who succeed in languages, politics and other subjects of importance, must then undertake trials in archery, swordsmanship, horsemanship and other forms of combat. I have since learned that those of us thought likely to be appointed to Courts were also submitted to tests to assess their abilities to participate in courtly dances, and also the appropriate manners of such elevated circles. Only when these are complete are those who have succeeded throughout permitted to attempt the final trial for swords."

"Is Mr Dudley participating?" I cannot resist asking.

"He is." Cromwell confirms, "Though do not ask me how he is progressing, for I do not know."

And so, we must wait.

* * *

Cromwell is reading a report that has been delivered outlining progress on the system of roads, his expression one of satisfaction, "It appears that the route to Plymouth has been completed, gentlemen," he advises us, for Paget is also present, "And already the merchants in the town are reporting increased business, for it is now much easier to transport goods to the port from surrounding areas."

"And what of the security of those travelling?" Paget asks, "As you are aware, the presence of a defined route to follow is all but an invitation to robbers to waylay those who use it."

"Indeed so," Cromwell agrees, "Which is why I intend to institute legal powers for the authorities in each county to establish a form of protective militia to keep the peace in their counties."

"Can that be afforded?" I ask.

"At present, no." He admits, "Not without the imposition of taxation, which I am well aware shall be most unwelcome; but as our trade improves, I think the financial burden shall be more willingly borne to ensure that goods arrive at their destinations."

"You shall never persuade the wealthy to pay their share." I smile at him. It has always been impossible to demand that those with large amounts of money at their disposal surrender a portion of it to the state.

"They have always fallen back upon the ancient requirement to supply soldiers in times of war." Cromwell sighs, "But that is less of a burden these days, for even wars are now paid for by the State, and armies are raised and paid for at the centre. No, it cannot continue as it does - not when men are making their own fortunes. It is utterly wrong to demand taxes from one section of society, but not another, particularly when the section that is not obliged to do so is wealthier - and in some cases considerably so - than the one which is. I am quite astonished that the poor have not risen against us over the matter - or that those who are making fortunes from commerce have not demanded that they be freed of the requirement now that they hold lands of their own."

Paget nods, "Indeed - it is a disaster waiting to happen. Though, for as long as men have existed under the yoke of Rome, they have believed that their lot in life is God's will. That they see men escaping their station in life and finding a better existence can serve only to warn them that it is not so."

"I am living proof of it." Cromwell reminds him.

"Nonetheless," I add, "it shall be a near-impossible task. Those who were born to wealth and privilege shall fight furiously to prevent it. To tax all according to their means is a laudable goal, yes - but we all know that the more wealth one accumulates, the more one desires - and the less willing one is to share it. God knows that I am as guilty of that as any man."

"The generosity of the poor vastly outweighs that of the rich." Cromwell agrees, "Most men of wealth give as little as they can without stirring comments from those around them - and then only when obliged to do so. It is rare to find acts of true charity amongst the most wealthy, though there are some who defy that trend."

"Usually at the end of their lives when they fear that they shall be judged harshly in the next world." Paget adds, dryly.

"It is essential that we try, though." I know that Cromwell is right - the world is changing, and we must learn new ways of supporting the work of Government in response to that change, "It might not happen in our lifetimes, but nonetheless we must at least set foundations for it. If we do not, then all the wealth that our commerce generates shall be swallowed up in personal fortunes, and there shall be nothing for those at the bottom of the heap; who work hard, but see little in the form of earnings - which are then reduced further for they are taxed while those who pay them so little are not."

Paget laughs then, "A reform of the entire tax system, my Lord Cromwell - that shall be a task of magnitude. I do not envy the poor soul who shall be set to work upon it, for all shall despise them."

"I would do it, for I am already despised," Cromwell adds, cheerfully, "but it is not a task for me to undertake, for I shall have departed to Milan before it is completed."

"When do you plan to leave?"

"That, I fear I cannot say, Mr Paget - for at this point I do not know. Until my replacement has been appointed, and is in place, I shall remain; for I should prefer a degree of continuance between my service and that of the next Silver Sword. While it is likely to be easier to install him, for our Inner Circle knows of the Order, I should prefer to do it with at least a pretence of subtlety. My own insertion into the Court was far more carefully undertaken, though my Second then was Wolsey, and thus I was able to enter thanks to his patronage. Most Silver Swords are obliged to do the same - though their Seconds have never been as highly placed as Wolsey was, or you are now, Richie."

"Why was that?" Paget asks, curiously.

"The threat to England has always been the strongest, Mr Paget," I explain, "We are a small island, and therefore ideally placed to be a demonic stronghold. Should England be overrun, then she shall become a dread fortress from which demon-kind could rain slaughter upon all the countries of the world with relative impunity."

He swallows, nervously.

"That is why I intend to ensure that my replacement shall have a degree of position at Court commensurate to mine," Cromwell explains, "or at least enters in a position to achieve it. It is my intention to swear King Edward to secrecy - and to ensure that no Princes of his blood shall know of the Order - thus it can retreat back into the shadows again as it should. His father did not know of us until the very end, at which point I told him. Queen Jane was required to know of us, for she was essential to the success of the Mission, but that knowledge must not pass beyond her son - there is no guarantee that a future monarch shall not attempt to demand that his Silver Sword serve his interests, and not that of the Mission. Our existence, first and foremost, has always been to prevent any incursion by demon-kind into the mortal world."

"Speaking of which." I interrupt, looking up at the darkening sky outside the windows, "There is a ravener hiding in a cellar near the Base court."

Cromwell laughs, "And so we shall dispatch it. Whoever takes my place shall be most disgruntled that they cannot have a Second who can tell them where a demon is hiding, rather than have to go and hunt it out themselves."

* * *

As January continues, the snows of winter set in with a cold harshness that drives all within the Palace in search of the largest fireplaces. The river has frozen hard, obliging the wherrymen to lay up, and instead find people with horses to aid them in providing services aboard roughly constructed wooden sleds for those who do not wish to risk a fall upon the ice.

The sleds that are used by those of us who must travel from Whitehall are far finer in construction, the horses that draw them wearing studded horseshoes to keep them from losing their grip, and the King has caused much excitement on several occasions, taking rides out upon the river with Prince Hal and a phalanx of gentlemen to view the effect of the frozen river upon those who are dependent upon the flowing waters for their business. His reports of their hardship supplement those of the Spies, and thus enable us to better aid those who need help the most. Wolsey was always careful to maintain funds to do such things, and Cromwell has been equally careful to maintain them. That the King is so keen to know how his subjects are faring in such inclement conditions has served both to educate him, and to endear him to the people, for his visits have always been followed by aid for those who are most in need. They thus believe that he has seen their personal struggles, and taken it upon himself to assist them. They are also, by and large, correct in that belief.

For those who are struggling elsewhere in the nation, Cromwell has - in Somerset and the Regent's names - directed his commissioners in the Cities to conduct similar researches, as they have always done; and, with the Regent's approval, Prince Hal has been equally prominent in viewing the difficulties facing those of poor means across the City, which has shown him in the most brutal detail the plight of those who have nothing. Consequently, his profligacy has all but vanished, and he seems more prepared to accept what he has, rather than demanding something else almost as soon as he has obtained what he desires.

There is, of course, an ulterior motive in all of this, for it is the first foundation of Cromwell's intention to begin reforming the tax system in England. To know who is most in need, as well as who can afford to be taxed and who cannot, shall be most useful in determining what should be taxed, and by what percentage. I suspect that his prime intention is to tax all in the Kingdom for a percentage of their earnings, so those who earn more must pay more - though I imagine he shall also demand legislation that forbids those of wealth passing on their losses to those they employ through reducing their wages, or charging them more for rents and goods. So much to think of - particularly as he shall have left by the time much of the real work begins.

The news we have been awaiting comes to us in the thick of a brutal snowstorm that has all but brought London to a halt. It is Hound who delivers it, covered with snow that melts and drips from his garments onto the expensive carpet in Cromwell's chambers. From Cromwell's smile as he hands the document to me, having read it himself, I already know what it shall say.

"He has done it. He won the Hawk blades - and after a mere eighteen months, too." I find that quite astonishing.

"It is not the shortest apprenticeship for a Silver Sword, Richie," Cromwell advises, "a few have been lucky to have been granted the opportunity to claim blades in as little as a year, for they arrived already well schooled in the arts, and thus did not need long to learn those skills that they lacked. Mr Dudley proved himself to be singularly intelligent and most skilled even before he departed to Milan; and his time in the final trial was excellent."

"Not as good as yours, I'm sure." Hound smirks.

"I am glad of it, Hound; for what I did was dangerous and stupid. I could have killed myself - and poor Joachim did exactly that. If the High has not forbidden it, then I shall press for him to do so once I have established myself as a Master. When is he to come to us?"

"As soon as you wish it. Given that he is, I understand, related to a noble family already established here, he can return easily enough, and I am sure the Regent can find a suitable political post for him. Is that not so?"

"Most assuredly. I suspect he does not have the aptitude or inclination to politick as I do - but there are many Court appointments that are well suited to his more conventional talents. I think, as Sir Anthony Browne is keen to retire from Court, I might suggest that her Majesty appoint him Master of the Horse, for that shall give him ample opportunity to work within the Court, and with the most highly placed Courtiers, without requiring him to wallow in the _minutiae_ of politics."

"An excellent suggestion, Raven." Hound grins, cheerfully, "But I must depart - the weather is foul without, and I must return to Tilbury if I am to find a ship; the Pool is still frozen solid. I shall return to Milan and advise the High to dispatch Hawk to you without delay. Even though he has proved most skilled, there is still much that he needs to learn, and that shall be your task."

"I look forward to it." Cromwell acknowledges, and sees Hound out, studiously ignoring James's look of dismay at the state of the carpet.

"There is one problem, Thomas." I advise, as we return to the fireside while James sends an usher in search of a chambermaid to help sop up the meltwater, "The Lady Elizabeth. Unless he has changed considerably in his character, she shall find his presence most difficult."

"Not if he is ennobled." Cromwell muses, quietly, "Our Princes must make marriages of the Blood, yes - but she is as far from the throne as she has ever been - for she has two boys ahead of her who are in good health. Englishmen would never countenance her marriage to a foreign King were there a crown upon her head - and as she is loved, and is not likely to rule, they would expect her to marry one of her own. While she has been restored to the succession, her legitimacy remains compromised - and thus I think we could find a way if she were truly set upon it."

"To be wedded to a Silver Sword?" I ask, worriedly, "Is that wise?"

"You forget, Richie;" Cromwell smiles, a little sadly, "I was married - though I was widowed. It is not wise for Itinerants, perhaps, but for Court Silver Swords, it can be most useful, for it supplies an air of normality that a lone man struggles to emit. If he is as intent upon her as he was when he left, and she is the same, then a peerage may pave the way to bring them together."

I am about to comment further, but the door opens to reveal a brace of chambermaids, and thus we say no more. Best, I think, to alert the Regent on the morrow.

* * *

Queen Jane looks pensive, and turns to Cromwell, "This shall be most difficult for the Lady Elizabeth - for Mr Dudley, despite his family, remains a commoner. Even if his Majesty was to ennoble him, that would not change, for she is of Royal blood, on her father's side, at least."

"Perhaps so, Majesty," Cromwell agrees, "but nonetheless, she cares deeply for him, and he shall now be returned to Court - and shall remain here for the length of his service. Their feelings for one another are undeniable - and, even if he has the strength to remain aloof, and she has likewise, then they shall be deeply unhappy."

"It is remarkable that he is coming to a Court, is it not? Despite his clear talent, he is only seventeen years old."

"I was only twenty when I was appointed, Majesty. It is my intention that we shall induct him to the task as thoroughly as we can."

"And what shall you do then?" she asks, though she must know that there cannot be two Silver Swords at Court.

"I shall step down, Majesty. The previous Grand Master recalled me to Milan in his dying declaration - and that, I cannot disobey."

She looks shocked, "You shall leave us?"

"We both shall, Majesty." He advises, looking towards me, "That same document directed that my Lord of Warwick to travel to Milan to establish a sister House for the training of Seconds. I suspect, however, that his Grace has already begun to plan far more than the mere tuition, have you not, Richie?"

I have the grace to look a little sheepish. My mind has rather been occupied recently with thoughts of how Seconds shall be identified and what they must learn; but also with a review of how all the documents that we hold are organised and catalogued, for I am sure that we need archivists as much as we need Seconds…I am distracted again - and everyone is looking at me.

"As I said," Cromwell is smiling rather broadly now, "he has begun to plan. Extensively."

"I think we shall defer the matter until Mr Dudley has returned." The Queen says, smiling as well, "If it is clear that the love between him and the Lady Elizabeth has not abated, then we shall think again upon it. I wish for her to be happy - for she is a remarkable woman who deserves to be more than a pliant wife of some foreign grandee who does not appreciate her intellect."

I think we all agree upon that.

* * *

There is, of course, still much to be done while we await Dudley's arrival. While John Dudley has taken his late father's place at the Council table, Ambrose remains with us in the offices, working alongside Cecil to evaluate the results of the ongoing investigations into the balance of wealth across England. They are, to be fair, a good partnership - and it seems likely that the union of Cecil and Dudley shall be beneficial for the State on several fronts.

Even Prince Henry has begun to appreciate that Cromwell is a remarkably capable and effective administrator, and is realising that his station in life can be one of equal service as that of his elder brother. He is also beginning to understand that it is not as magnificent a matter to be a King as it appeared to him when he looked to Northumberland's friendship out of jealousy. Young though he is, and impulsive, and capricious; he has also a degree of self-awareness that I think his father once also possessed. Where that went, I cannot imagine - perhaps it was lost when King Henry fell from his horse at that joust more than ten years ago.

If I felt before that we might be on the verge of a new age, then I know that I was wrong, for it was a mere sense of comparative safety. This time, however, I know it - for my sword tells me so. It is still a most strange sensation, knowing what I do - for I am now able to tell Cromwell where to find any demon that might find its way into the Palace, and thus our hunts are rather more efficient than they used to be. Furthermore, should there be any grave danger to the Mission, no matter where it might be, I am told of it, and can aid in its prevention - though I suspect that I should be careful with that, for what I see is not always clear to me. Perhaps it is something that I shall learn to interpret more effectively in time - though I should prefer it if I did to have to. Momentous events should be a thing of the past; at least that is my hope.

Today's meeting of the Council is remarkably productive, despite the absence of the King and the Regent. The harvests over the last few years have been excellent, and prices are stable - but the fear of failure is always present, and our work today has been to agree a more formalised version of the old procedure that Wolsey used to implement in such situations. We who are privileged have ignored those who are not for long enough. It may be that centuries have passed since a man called Wat Tyler challenged the authority of those who held power over the peasantry, but the world in which we reside is changing at a remarkable rate - and it is better to prevent another such revolt by giving those who would rise no reason to do so.

How strange that sounds to me. Cromwell is one who rose from low beginnings; so, to him, it seems reasonable to expect others to have the same opportunities; but I am not. I am of the Gentry, and thus I was born to relative ease and privilege by virtue of my family - so I did not see the world as he did as I grew into the despicable man that I once was. Even now it still sounds remarkably innovative, and I am quite convinced that the rich and powerful who are not in Government shall object to it most vociferously - largely on principle I imagine.

"We have received approaches on behalf of the Princess Elisabeth of Lorraine by the Holy Roman Emperor, for her parents are both dead. I understand that she is a great beauty, and shows promise of an intelligent and cultured nature." Somerset advises, "Given her age, of course, any marriage would be by proxy at this time, though we are keen to arrange a meeting between his Majesty and her Highness before any negotiations might be undertaken."

That is also unusual - while King Henry might well have seen Queen Katherine before their marriage, as she came to marry his brother, most Kings marry women they have never seen in order to create alliances with other powers. After all, the purpose of such unions is twofold - to bring two nations together, and to ensure the propagation of the line. That the Emperor is prepared to permit this child to be wedded outside his family suggests that she is worth more to him as a bargaining tool with other nations than as an inheritrix of suitable lands; his line is well known for its inter-familial marriages. She is, of course, not closely related - but a marriage that shall forge friendship in Europe is always welcome; and if it is a successful and happy one, then all benefit. That there is an element of choice involved for the prospective spouses is surprising; but Queen Jane refuses to impose anything upon the King by force. Persuasion, yes, but never coercion. Consequently, we agree that the proposal shall be considered, and the King's views taken into account.

A steward is waiting outside the council chamber with a note for Cromwell, and his expression of satisfaction when he reads it suggests good news, "Hound is awaiting us in my apartments, Richie. He has brought a companion. If you could alert Mr Cecil, I shall meet you there in ten minutes or so."

* * *

It does not take me long to find Cecil, and we are soon in the main chamber of Cromwell's apartments, where I am surprised to note that young Dudley is taller, broader and has an air about him that instantly announces to me that he is a Silver Sword. He is dressed simply for a man of his family - but he wears the Hawk gauntlets, and his swords, decorated with his sigil, rest upon Cromwell's table. He has already raised his eyebrows in astonishment at the Raven's astonishing rejuvenation, and received a brief explanation additional to that which had been communicated to him at the House after the death of his father.

"Welcome home, Hawk." I am well aware of the formalities in these circles.

"Thank you, Mr Rich. I am most pleased to be back - for I set myself to win blades and this appointment. Even more so after I discovered that which had occurred in my absence."

Ah - like John and Ambrose, he has that same keenness to atone for his father's treachery; though, unlike his elder brothers, he shall know far more that the late Northumberland's actions were governed by the twisted influence of a demon that revelled in conflict, "He did not start out so, Hawk. It was his dealings with Eligos that changed him from an ambitious man to a traitorous one. He is not the first to have discovered too late that such dealings never end well."

"Have you eaten?" Cromwell asks, "I can arrange for victuals if you require them."

"That would be most excellent; thank you. I am sure that Hound is as in need of sustenance as I."

It is perhaps a little early to sup, but there is much to discuss, and what better way to do so than over an excellent meal and good claret? As we eat, we are regaled with the events of Dudley's experiences in the Final Trial, which was a close-run thing; for he was almost equally matched by a highly talented, but impetuous, youth from Aleppo who was so eager to gain the swords that he failed to remember that most vital rule of the House - never to be caught, "I knew that there was insufficient time to move from my hiding place to the next," Dudley explains, "I had hidden myself in a large cupboard, rather than the alcoves that line the corridor, for it is all but impossible to still the arras before you in time. Saif was safe in one alcove, but he was facing his last opportunity to gain swords, and chose to flee to another that was ahead of me, in hopes of getting there before the master returned - for then he would have had a clean run to the end of the corridor. Alas, he had not stilled the arras, and thus the Master knew that there was a student there. It was as he was being led away that I took my chance."

"I imagine that you must have thought your opportunity to be lost when he did so." Cromwell observes.

"God yes, I did, Raven - for a moment my stomach was in my boots, for if he had managed to evade discovery, he could have reached the stair before I did - it would have been far easier to slip away than it would have been to open the cupboard. I should perhaps not be so unchivalrous, for he would have made a truly fine Silver Sword, and only mischance had kept him from blades on his previous attempts."

"Perhaps so; impetuosity can be as great a hindrance as an aid to one of our kind, as you feared. But instead, your patience saved you, and you won your blades."

He nods, and eyes them with that same sense of reverence I see in Cromwell's eyes when he looks upon his Raven swords. Indeed, I have noticed Hound doing much the same with his, too.

"I am advised that you shall be returning to Milan, Raven." Dudley continues, "Is Mr Rich to be my Second?" He seems quite hopeful of that.

"Alas, no," I advise him, "The High That Was decreed that I should also travel to Milan, in order to establish a sister House to train Seconds."

Goodness, his face has fallen, "That is rather a shame," he admits, "for all were rather envious that I had gained a Second of such reputation as yours, and I was excited that I would be supported by your knowledge as I take my first steps in my Mission."

"Fear not," I assure him, "I have taken steps to ensure that you shall be supported by a Second of great skill. Allow me to introduce you to Mr William Cecil, formerly my apprentice, but shortly to become the Second to the Hawk."

Cecil stares at me, as surprised as his Silver Sword, "My apprenticeship is to end? Am I ready to take on such a burden, Richard?"

"Of course you are." I turn to him, "You have mastered the Library to a degree that I am embarrassed to admit vastly exceeds me - and you performed most excellently in your researches as you worked with us to combat Eligos. There is nothing left that I can teach you - for all that I have left that you do not is my possession of Shadowsight. It will talk to no one but me, so even if you wished to take on a sword of your own, I could not pass it to you."

"I am glad of it," Cecil admits, again, "for I am not a man of violence."

"No - you are a man of intellect, and that is the most vital qualification for a Second, William." I remind him, "Do not be afraid to make mistakes - for I made many in my time. They are opportunities to learn. Treat them as such."

"I shall." He says, firmly, "I give you my word."

"Then it is done." Cromwell says, quietly, "For the next few weeks, we shall work together - but as soon as you are secure in the Court, my work shall be over, and we shall depart."

God above - is this really so? I an hardly believe it - but it is. In but a matter of weeks, we shall be free of our obligations in England, and so shall begin our journey to Milan.


	29. A Second to be Proud of

**A/N:** Thanks for your review, Blurgle - just a few loose ends to tidy at Court, and the doughty duo will be off on the road. First things first, though - Mr Dudley has some acclimatisation work to do...

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 _A Second to be Proud of_

Robert Dudley's return to Court from Milan is treated as a grand welcome on the part of his elder brothers, both of whom are carving out excellent careers for themselves. He is not as keen a politician as they are, though he is more than capable of politicking where he must, and his knowledge and expertise in the field of horsemanship seems to recommend him very much to the post of Master of the Horse, as we had surmised. We do not even have to persuade Sir Anthony Browne to step aside, for his wish to retire is well known, and he is more than content to relinquish the post. Ceremonial though it is, the position is one of great importance that grants access to the King - albeit not to the same degree of that held by the Groom of the Stool.

Intriguingly, both Dudley and Cecil are quite intent, despite the fast friendship that has grown between them, to present a front of indifference - nay, even one of mild dislike - to those around them. While Cromwell and I are considered to be quite the David and Jonathan, to the point that I am sure Court wags at one point or another have suggested that our closeness is more than mere friendship, our successors seem keen to pretend that they are not involved with one another in any manner at all other than stiff politeness, for Dudley is reputed to be a man of action, while Cecil is most certainly not. Given that Cecil shows promise to become a great politician on the Edwardian Court, the pair are certain to enjoy a level of influence almost akin to ours, though they have planned to conceal it under a veneer of mild rivalry.

Cromwell has already set Dudley the task of studying plans of all of the palaces that he shall be patrolling. When I have departed, he shall no longer have access to my ability to determine where an incoming demon has located itself, so he shall be obliged to rely upon his own senses, just as we used to do. It is a monumental task - and I suspect that Dudley does not know that the Raven committed them all to memory in just two days. Admittedly, he did not stop for trifles such as victuals or sleep, but nonetheless, it was a monumental feat - and to know it would put undue pressure upon the Hawk to attempt to do likewise. Older and wiser he may be, but he is still seventeen; and I can remember witnessing - and enduring - many incidents in my youth brought about by foolish impetuosity thanks to young men believing themselves to be more mature than they are.

Consequently, my reports of demons being present are made only to Cromwell, for it is unfair to grant Dudley this advantage for a short time, only to withdraw it. Otherwise, the two men hunt together, while I remain in my quarters for the first time in years. Perhaps I should revel in the freedom to retire to my bed far earlier than once I did - but I do not. Instead, I miss the hunts and wish that I could be with them. Even I can hold my own against a ravener these days.

Of course, there is also the matter of the Lady Elizabeth, for she has indeed proved to be delighted at Dudley's return to Court. She is overjoyed that he succeeded in his endeavour, but the fact that she has taken such care with her wardrobe, and wears a remarkable scent of damask rose that was formulated especially for her, suggests to all who know of it that she is hopeful of rekindling their fledgling relationship. So far, she has not been given the opportunity to spend time with him alone - or even in reduced company - and her frustration at this has expressed itself in a magisterial outburst of temper that sent her ladies fleeing from her. It is also clear to us that Dudley reciprocates - though he has learned a degree of self control that prevents him from expressing his feelings quite so violently. Cromwell tells me that he vents his fury upon the few raveners that enter the court - though they do so at a rate similar to that of the population we were obliged to cull in the earliest days of our partnership.

By the end of the month, it is clear to us all that we cannot keep them apart for much longer, and the Queen Regent is also finding herself facing persuasion from the King, for he admires Robert Dudley enough as it is, without his having earned the Hawk blades, and his love for Elizabeth demands that he do all he can to grant his elder sister happiness. Being as young as he is, he still does not see the political obstacles that might stand in their way, and certainly his father would never have countenanced such a match for her. But Edward is not Henry, and he does not view all things in relation to their potential impact upon how he is regarded by those around him. To his mind, Elizabeth loves Robert Dudley, and he loves her in return: thus they should be permitted to wed should they wish to. He is the King, after all, so it is difficult to refuse.

"I shall secure the meeting, Gentlemen," the Regent advises, quietly, "So that both parties are adequately chaperoned in the first instance. Regardless of their feelings for one another, Elizabeth is of Royal blood, while Mr Dudley has no noble status - and that shall inevitably generate comment - particularly after the incident involving his father. There is no means of preventing that - but if we an at least mitigate it in the first instance, then they shall have time to decide whether or not they still wish to be together."

"We shall not be present, Majesty." Cromwell advises, gravely, "It would be pointless, and intrusive. Who shall be present for Mr Dudley? I shall assume that the Lady shall be accompanied by Mrs Ashley and Lady Rochford."

"She shall. I suggest my Lords of Northumberland and Wessex. They are well respected, and their loyalty to the King is unimpeachable."

"In which case, we shall leave matters in your hands, Majesty. If it becomes clear, however, that they shall not withdraw their intentions, I am more than content to aid with the drafting of any letters patent to confirm a suitable peerage for the young man."

The Regent smiles, "Then sharpen your quill, my Lord of Essex, for I have no doubt that it shall be needed."

* * *

It feels strange to be out in the corridors again after dark, for I have not done so since Dudley arrived to take up his post. He is supping with the Regent tonight, however, and thus Cromwell and I are hunting together. It does not do, of course, to get out of practice - I intend to grant students the opportunity to do this wherever possible. Shadowsight has not warned me of the presence of an infernal being, and Cromwell has sensed no ichor, but we emerge for form's sake - such is my clumsiness that I require regular such sorties to maintain what few skills I have at covert movement.

"I do not intend to rush to Milan, Richie." Cromwell advises, quietly, as we make our way through a parterre garden, "As it is, the journey shall take at least two weeks - but I have not been on the continent for many years, and thus I intend to move at a slow pace to reacquaint myself with the world outside the Court. The word of spies is most useful, but I wish to know it for myself."

"I have no complaint, Thomas; for I have lived a life of privilege, and it is vital that I learn as much as I can about life beyond my cosseted world."

"It shall not be comfortable, Richie: far from it, in fact. There may be nights where we shall have no roofs over our heads and we must rest in barns, or under the open sky. Such is the life of an Itinerant. There are networks of houses across the countries through which we must pass - but it shall not always be so that we shall be in the vicinity of one."

That, I was not expecting, and I pause for a moment, "Is that so?"

"It is. Perhaps I should have advised you of that in a more timely fashion - but life on the road is, on occasions, rather rough. I hope that it shall not cause you to loathe me for taking you from the world that you know."

"If it does, then I am not worthy to call myself a Second, Thomas. I have endured hardships, and thus I shall teach myself to endure any that we shall encounter upon the road. It is better that I do so, for I have been relatively pampered, and that shall not be the case any longer, shall it?"

Cromwell chuckles softly, "Then we shall both be discomfited, Richie - for I am no less settled in comfort than you. What a pair we shall make, I fear; stiffened, grumbling and bad tempered."

But we shall be together - and that is all that matters to me.

Our hunt proves fruitless, but then we knew that it would. Instead, we return to Cromwell's apartments to share that customary cup of mulled wine that would always end our hunts. All that would make this time perfect would be Wyatt's presence, long lost and long missed. I hope that he is safe in God's care; and that we shall be together again in Christ when my time comes.

A knock at the door turns our heads as James goes to admit Dudley, his expression one of uncertainty. Without hesitation, Cromwell fetches a chair while James pours another cup of claret, "I am in a quandary, Raven." He admits, "I know not what to do."

"Did this evening not go well?" I ask, worriedly, surely the Lady Elizabeth has not spurned him? It seemed so unlikely.

Dudley's expression brightens, "Oh yes, Mr Rich - it went exceedingly well. The Lady is as glorious as ever, and I would lay down my life for her were I not set first upon the requirements of the Mission."

"But?" Cromwell prompts.

"I wish that I could make her my wife, Raven. But she is royal, and I am not - moreover, I am a Silver Sword now."

"I was married, Hawk. Do not forget, I have a son who serves in Parliament; and I once had two daughters, God rest their souls. It can be as useful to a Court Silver Sword to have a wife as it can be difficult for an Itinerant. That shall not bar you from her."

"Perhaps not. But our blood still stands in the way."

"And if it did not?" I ask.

"If it did not, then I would kneel before her and beg her hand." Dudley sighs, "But, alas, it does, and thus I do not. I have no title and no lands. I would make her a most poor husband - for she must marry one of her own."

He is most subdued, alas. Such an unfortunate turn of events, then; to love a woman to whom he can make no commitment. Or so he thinks. If Elizabeth is keen upon the match, and the matter is broached appropriately, then perhaps it might be possible. He has been formally appointed as the Master of the King's Horse, and shall begin work tomorrow - examining the mounts in the great Mews. He is of good family, albeit one with no Royal connection, and were he of a suitable rank; an earl, for choice, then what could stand in their way?

* * *

Queen Jane's expression is also rather bemused, for it is clear that the Lady Elizabeth is as keen upon Dudley as he is keen upon her. The meeting last night assured her of it, "I think that we must consider it, Gentlemen. To do otherwise would be cruel to them both. She has spoken of little else but Mr Dudley for the last two weeks - and her joy in knowing he is here could not be clearer."

Somerset nods, "Though we must take care - for there are many who have entered into marriage for love, and have discovered that it is not enough. That they are as intent upon one another as they were a year and a half ago, and that long absence has done nothing to diminish it, suggests that their love would survive. It must do so, for there shall be much comment should they wed."

"And it must not be done without the consent of the King and the Council." Cromwell adds, firmly, "It shall satisfy the law - which is of great importance - and shall also deter gossip about clandestine nuptials. Such talk was a dark ghost over the marriage of the fourth Edward, for that was indeed undertaken in secret, and the woman he married was of common stock; married in defiance of the efforts of the highest Noble in England. It devoured the last of the Plantagenets, including two boys almost the equal of our own Royal boys in age, and brought no joy to any in the end."

"Indeed." Somerset agrees, "All must be done with great care and openness. There is no reason why Mr Dudley should not receive a peerage, for his brothers have proved themselves to be the men that their father might have come to be had he not fallen in with such desperate influences. Ambrose is an earl, so it would not be inappropriate that he also become one."

"The only issue that I foresee," I feel I have no choice but to rain upon the banquet, "is that most at Court would wonder how it is that a man who has been away from Court for a year and a half could return and be granted an earldom without having shown any act to merit it. The work of Silver Swords is not known to any but we of the Inner Circle, and that knowledge shall pass with us to the grave, as we agreed. Therefore, no matter what greatness is worked by the Hawk, none shall know of it, and his merit shall be unseen."

The Regent sighs, for she knows that I am right, "Indeed, my Lord; it is not wise to dispense peerages as though they were sweetmeats. My late Lord could, on occasion, grant reward almost without restraint, and to do so inspired jealousies and enmity between men who might otherwise have been friends. That Mr Dudley was able to protect the Lady Elizabeth from a demon while we were on progress is more than meritorious - but who other than we know of it?"

"We can, at least, knight him." I suggest, "For there has never been a Master of the Horse that does not hold at least that rank. It is a beginning, I think. If he is knighted, then it is not unknown for additional privileges to follow at greater speed."

"Then it shall be done." The Regent agrees, "I shall speak to his Majesty, for I know that he is willing to grant Mr Dudley a dukedom if it shall ensure his union with the Lady Elizabeth. He must not act arbitrarily, so we shall offer him a route to achieve that which he desires that is both sensible, and lawful."

And so we gather in the Presence Chamber two days on. Additional to the elder Dudley brothers, the two younger youths, Guilford and Henry, arrived only yesterday in hopes of seeking apprenticeships in the offices as John and Ambrose have done, and they are present to watch Robert receive an honour commensurate to his position as Master of the Horse.

It is Cecil who reads the honours out in his capacity as King's Secretary, as Dudley approaches the King and Regent. I am not remotely surprised that his Majesty thought that a knighthood was insufficient - as did we all - but his intention to grant a peerage is restrained and sensible, for he dubs his new Silver Sword Sir Robert Dudley, Baron Denbigh. Thus the honour is not unexpected, and draws no comment. Later honours shall certainly follow - and it is clear to all that Dudley was not expecting to be honoured at all. He has learned a great deal about humility while at the House.

Cromwell and I spend the evening playing cards, which still feels most peculiar given that we once hunted at this hour. Now that Dudley has mastered the plans of the palaces, he has begun to hunt alone; leaving us free to remain indoors and indulge ourselves in lesser pursuits.

"He has proved to be most skilled, Richie." Cromwell advises as he deals the hands, "While we have not seen large numbers of raveners in the time that he has been here, he has proven most capable in fighting them. His agility is remarkable, and his speed extraordinary. Yes - despite his youth, he is talented, and I see something in him of the young man I once was. His ambitious nature has been utterly curtailed, and his determination to serve with loyalty and skill undeniable. No Silver Sword has ever proved to be badly appointed, and I am convinced that he shall be an excellent Guardian."

"And William is equally capable," I agree, as I sort my cards, "though he has chosen not to carry a blade, he confessed to me a while back that he has taken he opportunity to learn to shoot a small crossbow. Fortunately, his aim is far, far better than mine. I think he felt that he was disappointing me, for he had chosen not to take up a blade - even though I counselled him that I was the exception, not the rule."

"It is inevitable that he feels that he is in your shadow." Cromwell looks at his cards with dismay, for he seems to have dealt himself a dreadful hand, "For none have served as well as you have done - you are truly a Second to be proud of."

"Quiet yourself, Thomas. I am surely blushing." I joke, "Either that or I shall bore you again with yet another screed about how that night I found you at my feet saved my soul."

"It seems, alas, that it shall not save this hand."

* * *

How strange it is. There was a time when the weeks passed marked by momentous events - or so it seems to me; but now they merely pass. Our work to ensure that the government of England shall remain strong once we have departed these shores continues apace, and we no longer have to fear the enmity of our fellow Councillors as they see the fruits of our work. England's debts remain rather higher than we would like - but are still being reduced at a steady, if gradual, pace. The currency has been stabilised, and trade continues to flourish. Now that we are no longer at each others' throats, we seem able to achieve so much more than ever we did when Henry ruled, and factions faced one another across the council table.

The King has struck up a great friendship with his Baron Denbigh, and the two spend hours together hunting and hawking when his Majesty is not at work. Dudley is, of course, the youngest of the prominent men at Court, as his two younger brothers are too newly arrived to have gained much of a presence, and his Majesty is most grateful to be in the company of one nearer to himself in age. They are inevitably accompanied by a phalanx of guards, for none outside our Inner Circle know of the true purpose of the Master of the King's Horse - but rarely by any other member of the Queen's Council. That we are present today suggests strongly that his Majesty wishes to question us upon matters pertaining to our other business - presumably because he has been asked never to alert any prince of his blood to the secret.

The spring weather is most agreeable as our horses thunder across the park of St James at a fair canter. There shall be a council meeting this afternoon, as is always the case, but this morning our time is our own. As Edward is now a King, rather than a Prince, our midday meal shall be set under an awning near a great oak tree rather than a shared repast fetched out of a saddlebag, but the ride out to that tree is considerable, and offers the ideal combination of challenge and safety.

Dudley is well established now, and our need to remain is reducing considerably. Thus our preparations shall soon begin for departure. As we pull up the horses alongside the awning, where a group of stewards have set out tables and chairs laid with the best silverware, and fine dishes of meat, with good bread and green cresses, it is clear that this is the matter that is upon his Majesty's mind, "When are you to depart, my Lords?"

"I think it shall not be long, Majesty." Cromwell advises him, "The weather is fair, and the crossing of the channel shall be easy. Your Government is well established, and none question either your legitimacy, or the right of your mother to be Regent until you are of age."

"It shall be most strange without you." He admits, quietly, "You have been a constant presence in my life - from the moment of my birth, for you saved me then, as you saved my mother. You protected the Court from great peril even after you had saved me, and have continued to do so even into my reign."

"It was my honour to do so, Majesty." Cromwell advises, quietly, "When first I left England and sought adventure on the continent, I never thought for a moment that such a great destiny awaited me."

He does not go into his journey from Milan back to London, for his Majesty has heard the tale many times now. Instead he allows Dudley to relate his own story, for it is not a tale that he has yet told, which surprises me somewhat given the number of times that they have ridden out together. Apparently he felt it was not appropriate to speak of himself in such glowing terms.

It is as we have turned to a selection of comfits and sweet wine that my senses alert me to danger, and I look up to see that one of the stewards is approaching, his hand reaching towards his waist…

"Majesty!" I am upon my feet, my hand extending for my sword as I summon it to me - but Dudley is quicker, being closer to the King. There is an air of madness about the man, whose eyes are livid with an unnerving fire that suggests insanity, though he says nothing. Without a care for his own safety, the Hawk leaps forth and wrestles the man to the ground, the dagger in the assailant's hand being waved in all directions as he attempts to break free to complete whatever mission he has set himself. Without hesitation, Cromwell and I are either side of the King, our weapons ready to defend him, though it proves unnecessary, as Dudley has efficiently disarmed the crazed man, and has pinned him to the earth as the guards come running. He has earned a slit in his sleeve in doing so, but at least the blade has not drawn blood. I have not forgotten the horrible poisoning I endured at the claws of the huntress, for I had not taken the same precaution.

"Why has he done this?" the King is shaken, and stares at the writhing man upon the floor as even now he attempts to force Dudley from atop him.

The failed assassin is wrenched to his feet by the guards, and he stands, snarling and growling in rage at us, though his words do not make much sense. The Captain of the guard however, has an explanation for it, "His eyes are unfocused, Majesty, I think he has imbibed some affective substance or other. Perhaps to build the courage to act. We shall get no explanation for his action until he has emerged from it."

"Then ensure that he is confined safely, Captain." The King says, "Until I know why he did this, I shall not act against him - for I do not know if he is sane or not." He knows that an insane person cannot be executed, even when they have done something so worthy of it as attempting to murder their liege Lord.

Cromwell has retrieved the blade, and looks at it, "My Lord of Denbigh, show me your arm."

Dudley complies, and allows Cromwell to examine the damage to his sleeve, "No blood, thank God. The blade has been painted with poison. Had it drawn blood, then that might well have been sufficient, even if there had been no deep wound."

The King stares at us, in horror, "Then my Lord of Denbigh might have died to save me?"

"Indeed so, Majesty." Cromwell is still closely examining the dagger, "Though at this point it is not possible to know what poison lies upon this blade."

Our journey back to the Palace is rather faster than our departure, and we are soon safe within the walls again. Her Majesty is, of course, horrified that one of the stewards attempted to murder his King, and Somerset is already seeking a motive, for the steward, now identified as being one of his own retinue, has given long service, and it seems most odd that he should act as he has, "Though I suspect I know it." He sighs, "For his father has recently been made bankrupt, owing to the loss of a merchant ship off Cadiz. His venture was based upon the increased confidence in trade engendered by the policies of the King's Government. It is quite likely that he thus blames the King, for he was always impetuous."

"Then we shall not act against him." The King says, firmly, "Instead he shall be sent from Court to return to his family. As his pay is the only sustenance to those who are now his dependents, it shall remain in place until he has found alternative employment."

"Your Majesty is most generous." Somerset says, surprised. Henry would, of course, have dispatched the youth to the Tower forthwith.

"David has served us well, my Lord of Somerset." He answers, "His rash act was driven by foolishness and some degree of intoxication, not malice. Thus I shall not hold him to account for it. Should he act against me a second time, then I shall not be so merciful. That I promise you."

"Your wisdom is greatly ahead of your years, Majesty." Somerset says, bowing, "I shall ensure that it is done."

"My Lord of Essex," the King turns then to Cromwell, "I should like you to arrange for the drawing up of letters patent to create my Lord of Denbigh Earl of Leicester, for he has acted without fear for his own safety to save my life."

"I shall see to it, Majesty." Cromwell also bows. In a single afternoon, the problem of how to elevate Dudley to a degree that he can marry Elizabeth is resolved. Who shall question such a reward for selfless bravery?

It might not be a grand match, but it shall be a fine wedding, I think. None of the Council would be so churlish as to deny the betrothal - and the King's agreement is already in place. Such a shame that we shall not be present to witness them as man and wife.

* * *

If there are any resentful viewers of the ceremony to come, they are not churlish enough to show it. I imagine that, had he not already granted it to me, the King would be making Robert Dudley Earl of Warwick today; but that earldom is now mine, so he has chosen Leicester instead.

Furthermore, he has also decided to grant the Lady Elizabeth a peerage, restoring her mother's peerage to her. Given that it merged with the Crown upon Queen Anne's marriage to the King, and - even had it not disappeared either then or as a result of later events - it was only to be inherited by heirs male, her daughter would not have been able to claim it. I think it is a fitting remembrance of her lost mother, though many still believe her to be guilty of the crimes for which she was blamed. I know that she was not; Cromwell knows that she was not. She was an innocent casualty of a demon's plot, and if her death could have been avoided, then we would have done all we could to prevent it. We have taken care, however, to reduce it in rank to an Earldom to ensure that she does not outrank her hoped-for husband in the peerage, as that would probably throw the whole prospect of nuptials into jeopardy all over again.

Thus, he shall become Earl of Leicester, while she shall be Countess of Pembroke - peers of the same rank, and thus assured that the objections to any marriage between them shall be based mostly upon snobbery. She is - of course - of the king's blood, but the Boleyn line is of similar stock to the Dudleys in terms of their origins and rise to such heights; and, added to the agreement and consent of the Council as much as the King, who would dare to complain?

Queen Jane sits to the side as Edward grants the honours. It is not the first time he has done so - for he invested me not too long ago - but his pride in elevating his elder sister could not be clearer, and the Queen looks proud of them both. Cromwell is pleased to declare the honours that have been granted to them, dressed in his very finest garments, and wearing his own raiments as a Garter Knight. It has not yet been announced that they shall wed - though I have no doubt that it shall not be long before the rumours that are already circulating are found to be right.

The afternoon's council meeting is a productive affair - as it always seems to be these days - and we have received diplomatic approaches concerning the possibility of a deeper union between nations in order to trade more effectively, and to at least try to prevent foolish outbreaks of war. As it is always over land, and claims are usually based upon old family inheritances, invasions or annexations, it seems wise to draw a line under all of it and for everyone to merely accept what they have and be done with it. Needless to say, I cannot see _that_ happening in the near future - if at all; but the negotiations might well keep everyone tied up for a few decades, and the resulting prosperity from unencumbered trade while they are doing so might serve as an example that conflict really is the stupidest means of settling a dispute.

Being at Whitehall, I have my own office again, and I am not surprised when Cromwell comes through from his own, a bottle of sack in his hand, "I think we have little left to do here, Richie. The kingdom is in good hands, Hawk is showing excellent aptitude for learning that which he needs to in order to be most effective, and his Second is proving to be most capable. Our time of employment here is nearly done."

I hand him two cups and he pours out the sack, "If that is so, then I shall need to begin settling my affairs - or do you intend us to do that after we have tendered our resignations?"

He laughs, "No, I shall not change my mind - though I would still intend to offer you another opportunity to change yours, for I suspect that the life of an Itinerant shall be something of a shock. Given that our journey to Milan shall not be a direct route, as the High wrote to me recently to ask me to undertake a circuitous route in order to view and assess how things are in the countries through which we are to travel, we shall be on the road for several months, and we cannot carry much in the way of baggage, for that would make us too tempting to brigands."

"It is not my intention to carry much, Thomas." I promise him, for the idea of adventure is still rather appealing, "Though there are some few items that are most precious to me, and I could not abide to leave them behind."

He nods, "I am similarly encumbered - so I shall arrange for those items to be delivered to the House directly before we depart."

We sit in silence awhile, drinking the sack and pondering what we must do before we can relinquish our roles and depart. Obviously, I must arrange for the distribution of my lands and properties to my children - primarily to Robert, of course, though several of my daughters are yet to marry, and so I must ensure that they are adequately provided for in terms of lands and dowries, particularly my dear little Agnes, still not yet five years of age.

For a moment, my heart constricts as I think of her - after the promises I made to her, I am now to abandon her after all. Perhaps it shall be possible to continue my practice of sending her letters - I am sure that there must be a way to do so.

"What is it, Richie?" Damn. He saw me.

"I was thinking of Agnes." I admit, quietly, "Pondering a means of ensuring that I am still able to send letters to her even while we are travelling. Would the houses that you referred to a while back be suitable places to deposit a letter for onward delivery?"

Cromwell nods, "Of course - for they are used for the very purpose of organising the movement of documents between the House and the Court Silver Swords, and the Itinerants use them as collection points for papers that they require from the spies. There shall be no difficulty in sending word to Agnes should you wish to do so. Certainly they shall be places where you can obtain paper and quills, for writing materials are not easily obtained in any other way. Our travels shall take us to houses regularly, so she can be assured that you shall remain in contact with her."

"Thank you - I am grateful."

"Masters are free to communicate to those who are outside the House, Richie," He advises, "It is only students who must give up their identities as much as their possessions. It may be that you shall not require the same act from your students when you establish the sister House - that is entirely your choice."

I drain the last of my sack, "In which case, I shall devote the rest of the day towards establishing what I must do to ensure that my affairs are fully settled before we depart. Then I shall be ready to undertake the task when we have stepped down from our Court positions."

I am not surprised when Cromwell does not claim that he shall be doing likewise - I imagine that he has long since set arrangements in place, "That is wise; advise me when you are done, for the end of April is near upon us, and it seems meet to step down before the start of May - thus we can take advantage of the kinder summer months to begin our journey."

"And pray to God that it shall not be a wet summer." I add, wryly.

* * *

Robert sits back from the papers, and sighs, rubbing at his tired eyes, "There, that is the last of them."

I have not been back to St Bartholomew's since Anne Askew died, but I did not want to undertake these tasks at Whitehall, as we have not yet tendered our resignations to the Regent and the King. The last thing I wish for is rumours to take flight. Gathering the various sheets together, I read through them again to ensure that nothing has been missed, "And so it is done. Upon my departure from these shores, all of my holdings and properties shall pass either to you, or to your siblings, while John shall either become a member of your retinue, or receive a pension as he wishes."

"While I would agree that your dowries for my unmarried sisters are most generous, I think I shall supplement them when the time comes, alongside the properties they shall own." He adds, which fills me with pride, for I could never have been so generous had I been in his position. He is, indeed, a far better man than I used to be. I am glad that he shall inherit an earldom, and a barony. He deserves such titles; even if he has opted not to take up a career at Court. Perhaps that is for the best - he is an excellent businessman, and would do much better in the expanding fields of commerce that peace has allowed us to create, "I shall also set aside the means to support a pension for you should you ever decide to return. If you do not, then it shall pass to Agnes, for I know that her welfare preys upon your mind, does it not, Father?"

Yes - he is a far better man than I.

When I return to Whitehall, I settle before the fireplace in my main chamber, where a small fire burns in deference to the warmer weather. While I have signed away my property, the agreement shall not come into effect until our ship casts off, so I have not entirely cut all ties. Now that our departure is becoming an ever greater reality, I am finding myself nervous at what I have done. My excitement tempered by a growing fear of the unknown, for I have never before left England. By the time I was important enough to accompany the King overseas, he had stopped going.

There is a sealed letter on the table nearby in Winifrede's handwriting, and I know that it shall be a missive from Agnes, for while she is still learning her letters, she has much to say and thus dictates to her elder sister. She does not yet know that I am to leave England, and shall likely never return - and I find myself dreading the moment when I must tell her. She is the last of my children - and I shall all but orphan her. It is a dreadful thought, and one that almost deters me from leaving at all.

I look up at the sound of a knock upon the door, which John opens to reveal Cromwell, "You are having second thoughts, aren't you?" It is a kind question, for he knows me well.

"Not to the degree that I shall change my mind." I reply, "Agnes has taken a tight hold of my heart, and I wish that I did not have to leave her behind. We have been communicating for a considerable time, and her letters tell of her joy when a letter comes to her from me. I neglected my children for most of their lives, and I thank God that they do not hold that against me now - but to leave her with neither mother nor father chills me inside." I stop, for my eyes are filling with tears. Now I am embarrassed.

"The messenger network shall ensure that you can continue to correspond with her, Richie - that need not cease. Once we are abroad, it shall be a simple matter to organise a means of ensuring that her words to you can reach you. I intend to discuss a route with Falcon while we are in Paris, and he can arrange with the messenger houses closest to that route to receive messages for you, as they will do likewise for me so that I can send reports to the High, and receive additional instructions if required while we are travelling. It shall take longer, yes, but it is not impossible."

That causes me to feel a little better, for much of my fears seem to surround that which I am leaving behind, "When do you intend to speak to the Regent and his Majesty?"

"If you are willing," Cromwell says, quietly, "I mean to do it tonight."

He is right - there is little reason now to delay. The Council is stable, the loyalty of the councillors absolute. Edward is learning well, and the Queen Regent is truly unopposed. We are no longer truly needed, for Ambrose Dudley is proving an excellent organiser, and with Cecil alongside him, is more than ready to take command of the various office departments that have begun to shoulder the burdens of governance. Yes, it is indeed safe for us to go.

* * *

"Are you quite certain that this is your wish, my Lords?" the Regent asks, a little sadly, for we have formed a central part of her government from the beginning. Beside her, Edward stares at us, quite shocked at the discovery that we are both intending to relinquish our Court posts and leave England.

"Yes, Majesties." Cromwell nods, "I am more than grateful for all that I have been granted by your Majesties, as I was by his late Majesty. The Kingdom is in good hands, and there is nothing now for me to do that cannot be done by younger, sprightlier men than I." He chooses not to refer to that remarkable rejuvenation that was conferred upon him by the light of the Jerusalem Chalice.

"And you, my Lord Rich?" the King asks, "Is this also your decision?"

"It is, Majesty." I confirm, "As his Grace of Essex has stated, we have given our best to England, and it is time for us to step aside, for there are others now who are equally able to do so. I think it safe to say that we should now serve England from the House, ensuring that no demon shall ever find her undefended."

"We have considered this decision most carefully, Majesty," Cromwell advises, "and we agreed from the outset that we would not depart until we felt truly assured that England would be safe. My replacement is well settled now, as is his Second. It does not serve a Court well for the retired Silver Sword to be still present after the new one has taken up his post."

I suspect that Edward intends to offer additional objections, but then he turns to his mother, and sees the look upon her face, for she has accepted our decision, and he realises that he must, too. His father might have been less accepting, of course - but the Regent understands that our mission now lies elsewhere, and so we must be permitted to go.

"If that is your decision," he says, eventually, in the most formal of tones, "then we shall accept it. Know, however, that we are most grateful to you - more grateful than we can truly express, for your steadfast service to our late liege Lord, our beloved mother, and to us." Then he sighs, for he is but eleven years old, "And know that you shall be most heartily missed, by those of us who truly know the service you have given England. But for you, I would not even be alive."

We both bow deeply, "It has been the greatest of honours to serve, Majesty." Cromwell advises, speaking for us both, "I have done all that I can to ensure that those who follow us are of the highest calibre; and thus it shall be as though we are present, even though we are not."

"No, my Lords." The Regent smiles, "Who could ever be as remarkable as you? Go safely, and with our blessing. I give you my word as both a Queen and the daughter of a Gentleman that your secret shall be preserved, and that neither I, nor the King, shall speak of your mission to anyone. Not even to our heirs."

We bow again, Cromwell thanking her once more, and withdraw. Thus it is done - from this day forth, we are no longer Court officials, but instead private individuals who are free to depart.

Thus I can say with absolute certainty, that life shall never be the same again.


	30. France

**A/N:** Thanks for your comments, Blurgle, I'm very pleased that I've achieved what I set out to do when I started these tales. While neither man could ever truly be claimed to be heroic and interested in the common good to this extent, that's where the AU concept works so well - and the mashup concept adds to the fun.

Now we have one more night in England, before the doughty duo take to the high seas and make their way across the Channel. Rich may be a changed man in many respects - but he's still got it in him to be a right old self-pitying wimp...

* * *

Chapter Thirty

 _France_

I am surprised at the number of people who have gathered at Felsted to greet me before we depart England. Winifrede is here, of course, for she holds the property now in trust for Agnes, who shall gain it when she comes of age. Robert has brought his family, and all of his siblings have come; all my progeny gathered together in one place for the first time since my poor Elizabeth passed away.

None of them have met Cromwell, but he has always been able to deal with any company in which he finds himself, and the story he has concocted to conceal the true reason for our departure - a return to the commercial dealings that he claimed to have undertaken during his younger days on the Continent - is well told, for he is thoroughly grounded in the practices of trade. Such is the depth of our friendship, that no one at all is surprised that I have decided to travel with him, for my own property dealings have always supplemented that which I have gained by other means - primarily through activities of an unscrupulous nature before I found my better self.

Winifrede wrote to me before we left London asking me to have my likeness committed to some form of record, so that she could give it to Agnes in order for the child to remember me once I am abroad. Thus I sat for John Bettes, for Holbein died far too long ago to create one of his most extraordinary likenesses. While not to the same degree of perfection as I could have expected from that great master, Bettes's painting in miniature is remarkably good, and I have had it set into a small frame that is easily transported - thus I shall be able to leave something of myself for a child who shall have no other means to recall what I look like.

While all surround us in the Hall, I note that Agnes is conspicuous by her absence, and I look to Winifrede for aid, "Do you know where she might be?"

She nods, a little sadly, "She has taken to concealing herself within Mother's bedchamber - for she has convinced herself that it is her doing that you are leaving. Such is the way of children, Father."

I look across at Cromwell, who has clearly overheard, and his expression is sad, too. What can I tell her? I cannot tell her the truth…

Fortunately, Winifrede is called away as one of her children has taken a slight fall and is calling for her, and Cromwell is beside me, "Tell her where you are going, and why, Richie. She deserves to know - and to be assured that she is neither to blame for your departure, nor shall she be forever lost to you. I was not placed in that position, as Gregory is a man grown."

I have not stepped inside this bedchamber since the last Christmastide I was present - and to do so pains me rather, for I remember that it was in this room that my poor wife went to God, without me at her side. There is no sign of my daughter, but there is only one place that could conceal her, and I open the closet to find her inside.

"Why are you in here, Agnes?" I crouch outside the door so that we are more easily face to face. God, she has grown - she must be five inches taller than the last time I saw her; even though she is sitting, it is obvious to me.

She doesn't answer for a moment, but then she looks up at me, her expression quite heartbreaking, "Do you not love me anymore, Poppa?"

Oh God…oh my dear God…that she thinks such a thing. I am silenced by it, and must clear a lump from my throat before I answer her, "Of course I love you, Agnes - you are truly precious to me. I am not leaving because of you, or anything that you might have done; it is for another reason, one of which Winnie knows nothing at all."

With a degree of gentle coaxing, I persuade her to emerge from her hiding place, and sit her down upon the bed, seating myself beside her, "It is a long story, my little one. A very long story - but all of it is true."

By the time I finish, she is settled down alongside me, for she is still small enough to cuddle into my clothes as she did after her mother died. She is not asleep, fortunately, so she understands now why I am leaving.

"I shall still write to you, Agnes." I assure her, as she drowses, "I promise you that I shall do it - though the means of delivering the letters shall not be as simple as once they were. I cannot promise that a letter will reach you every week, but I will not forget you, and I will do all that I can to write to you as often as I can. If you wish to send a letter to me, you have only to dispatch it to Mr William Cecil, the King's Secretary, and he shall send it on after me. I should very much like to have letters from you, too."

"Yes Poppa." She looks up at me, altogether assured now, and I wrap my arm about her to hold her close. If only she could come with us - but there is no place for a small child upon the road that we are planning to take.

We share a large supper of many dishes as the evening draws in, and Cromwell has already joked to me that I should eat well, for once we are on the road, there is no certainty over where our next meal shall come from. Given the organisation that has been undertaken for our journey, I suspect that he is right to joke, for we shall be too well taken care of to be true vagabonds.

Agnes is sitting on my lap, fighting to stay awake as we feast, taking little morsels that I carve from a great leg of mutton that has been set before those of us at the high table. I think I should call myself a hypocrite to say that I shall miss this - for when did I truly take the time to preside over such a gathering? But I can see there is a degree of wistfulness in Cromwell's expression, for while his own extended family is large, he does not have such a brood of children as I do. Even the sight of Agnes so close to me must pain him somewhat, for she cannot fail to remind him of his own daughters.

The evening closes with dancing, as Robert has engaged a small consort of musicians to entertain us. Despite her elder sister's attempts to remove her to bed, Agnes is still sitting on my lap, though she is barely able to stay awake. We both know that she shall almost certainly never see me again, and thus she grasps what little opportunity remains to cling to her only remaining parent. I must confess that I am doing much the same - and I am grateful now that I am so utterly unable to dance, for there is no risk of my being required to leave her in a chair while I take a turn about the floor.

She is asleep by the time Cromwell comes over to sit beside me, "One last chance, Richie. If you do not feel able to leave, you can still change your mind."

I look down at the sleeping child in my lap, and then up at Cromwell. No - I cannot stay here. I could not remain behind while the man who all but saved my soul departs alone. He is my dearest friend - and I love him. No matter what I must leave in England, I can no longer imagine my life without his friendship and presence. After all that we have endured together, all that we have achieved, and lost, there is still that fraternal bond that has grown and strengthened these ten years past, and I cannot bring myself to abandon it.

"No, Thomas. I shall not stay here - I have made a commitment to the House, but more than that, I have made a commitment to you. I am your Second, and I shall fulfil that task until my dying day. On the morrow, I shall abandon my jewels and my furs and velvets, and depart this place with you as though we were Itinerants embarking upon a mission placed upon us by the House - for that is, in all essence, what we shall be, is it not?"

"Indeed it shall." He agrees, looking most relieved, "I am glad that you shall still be with me, Richie, for it would be a most lonely road if you were not."

I lean back in my chair, cuddling my daughter and seated beside my dearest friend. Tonight is a night for leisure and rest, for tomorrow the true adventure begins.

* * *

The sun is high, and warm; the wind fresh, and I am wishing that I was dead.

"Deep breaths, Richie," Cromwell says, sympathetically as he rubs at my back, "Try to look at the horizon."

Having never left England, and only ever travelled on river boats, I am only now discovering that, when exposed to the open sea, I am a disastrously poor sailor. And we are barely an hour out of Tilbury; God help me, we shall not see Calais until tomorrow morning. Why am I not surprised that this awful pitching and tossing is doing nothing to disturb his constitution? At least he knew, however, to ensure that I did not lean over the rail on the windward side of the ship.

"I can ask the Master to put us ashore at Duinkerke?" he ventures.

"Or hurl me overboard so that I can end this misery at a stroke." I mumble back, and groan softly as my stomach lurches yet again.

While I must make a truly unprepossessing sight, none of the seamen aboard are aware of our identities, for I have, once more, adopted the surname Empshott, while Cromwell has chosen the maiden name of his late wife: Wyckes. Thus they know not that their passengers were once two of the most powerful men in England who did not wear a crown - though perhaps that is for the best given that I am slumped over the rail, heaving into the sea at worryingly regular intervals. I should not have breakfasted so lavishly this morning, alas - for it has served to increase my misery, and I shall gain no benefit from it.

"You might not think it now, Richie," Cromwell advises me, "but once we are ashore, you shall be recovered in less than half an hour and eager to seek victuals. I have seen it many times before."

The wind is not in our favour, which is the main reason for the time it shall take us to round the coast of Kent, and the thought of descending below, where I would be trapped and drowned should the vessel turn over - and unable to reach the rail in time should I be sick again, is deeply unappealing. That Cromwell has remained with me, rather than seeking a more comfortable and pleasant spot, is comforting; after all, there are few things more nauseating than watching another man vomit. But we cannot lean over the rail forever, and already he is looking for somewhere to seat ourselves where we shall be out of the way of the sailors, but close enough to the side for me to flee there. Why I am so fearful of our ship foundering, God alone knows, for I have no doubt my sword would have warned me before we embarked. She is a goodly sized Carrack that has plied the coastal waters of Europe for the best part of ten years, and her master is a man of excellent reputation.

Now that we are out of the sun, settled upon some casks alongside the main mast where there are no ropes or capstans, I find that it is cold, and I am grateful now for the thick cloak of heavy wool that encloses me. Beneath that, I am garbed in homespun broadcloth upper hose, and a rough calico shirt, over which is set a rather stiff sheepskin doublet - all of which is singularly uncomfortable to a man used to silks, cambrics and velvets. But I am not the Lord Privy Seal anymore, nor am I an earl, so all the privileges accorded to me by the sumptuary laws are equally lost, and I am now dressed as a burgher.

"Forgive me, Thomas." I sigh, sickly, "I did not think that I would begin our journey in so poor a fashion."

"'Tom', Richie - I am 'Tom' now, remember." He reminds me, smiling, "Fear not - once we are ashore, all shall be better and we shall celebrate your safe escape from this purgatory with a fine repast. I recall there being some excellent taverns in Calais."

"I shall never eat again." I promise him, rather miserably - and fighting with myself not to add the words 'and I wish that I had never come'. So much for the grand adventure.

As evening draws in, I am still horribly unwell, but I am sufficiently exhausted to be unable to resist Cromwell's efforts to usher me below decks. The bed in which I shall sleep is a rough cot, upon which is a mattress stuffed with straw and a felt blanket. We are berthed midships, so the ghastly rolling is less here, but I am quite convinced that I shall never be able to sleep.

When I open my eyes, however, small glints of light are visible above me from the deck, where some of the tar caulking has been knocked out, and I realise that the night has passed. My gratitude is at least half as great again as my awful sickliness, and I totter out on deck to find that we are close to an unfamiliar shore, though I can, if I squint somewhat, still see the Kentish coast in the distance in the opposite direction. Cromwell is already there, leaning on the rail and looking out at the town that is approaching as we sail westwards.

"That is Duinkerke, Richie." He says as I stumble up alongside him, "I spoke to the Master about leaving the ship early - but it seems that we are to put in there to unload some bales of wool - so if you wish, we can disembark there without inconveniencing the crew. It is but thirty miles from Calais, and we would arrive there on horseback in three hours or so. With the tides as they are, this ship would not put back to sea for another five, so it seems reasonable to do so."

"Then let us disembark, Tom. Please let us get off this damned boat." I am almost in tears with gratitude, as my discomfort has re-emerged in full force, even though there cannot possibly be anything left in my stomach to puke up.

As I am carrying very little, and did not unpack it when we boarded, it is a simple matter for us both to depart the ship as Benedict and Urban are led down a walkway onto the dockside. Cromwell spent a considerable amount of time teaching me how to saddle Urban before we left, for that had always been done for me by grooms, and thus we are able to leave the dockside remarkably quickly.

The first thing that strikes me is how quickly my sickness has receded; and, as Cromwell predicted, I am now ravenously hungry. The second is the strangeness of hearing all about me speaking a tongue that I do not understand, for while I have some familiarity with French, I have none at all with Flemish. Consequently, it comes as something of a shock when Cromwell stops a man dressed not too dissimilarly to us and asks him a question in the same language, for I had completely forgotten that he, too, speaks Flemish.

"What did you ask him?" I ask, as the two shake hands and the man moves on.

"Where one could find a decent meal for a reasonable price." He answers, cheerfully, "Even if you are not - I am hungry." His smile widens at my obvious eagerness to find something to eat, "It is a place called the Rising Sun, and it has a good reputation, so it seems appropriate to begin our journey with a well cooked repast, does it not?"

I have no idea what to expect, but our first stop turns out to be a large building with high gables and a wide gateway to one side. At the front, a small sign is hung which bears a crudely painted sun, presumably to indicate the name of the tavern. Leaving our horses with a young groom who, I am advised, has promised to watch over the possessions attached to the saddles on pain of losing his nose, we are soon seated in a large chamber where Cromwell politely ignores my almost embarrassingly uncouth gobbling of the cold beef, bread, eggs and cheese that are set before us. As promised, the food is good, and the ale is remarkably excellent.

"If you consider English ale to be fine, then it does not take long for such thoughts to be overturned by the brews of the Low Countries, Richie." Cromwell smiles at me, "The finest can be found in Brugge, Gent and Antwerpen - but this is very good."

I would answer him - but my mouth is full.

There is no Order representative in Duinkerke, so we must travel to the Order's House in Calais to alert the High that we have left England, and to see if any instructions are awaiting us. Apparently, the minor houses that we are to use as we travel are called _Duiventillen_ , or Dovecotes, named in the tongue of the low countries to honour the Grand Master who instructed that they be established in larger towns along well-travelled routes - for he had been born in Utrecht.

"They cannot be identified from the outside, Richie," Cromwell tells me as we ride along a rough coast road, "Their only distinguishing mark is that of a Dove, which is always carved into the door lintel. As you discovered when we were in Oxford, entry is gained by using the words _gladiis elegit me_ to the one who opens the door. If that is not spoken, then the visitor is treated as any other visitor. It is only a member of the Order, be it Silver Sword or Spy, that is admitted to the other parts of the house - which are usually well hidden."

"Are Seconds not told of this?" I ask, surprised.

"You are the first." He admits, "For Seconds do not tend to travel, so there has never before been any need for them to know of it - indeed, you are also the first Second ever to have been granted oversight of the work of the Order's spies. We do not have Dovecotes in England - the closest thing that would come to it would be Grant's Place, though it is not considered to be one by the Order."

As the land is very flat, we see the roofs of Calais long before we reach the city wall. The city is still an English possession, though I am sure that, with the ongoing growth of trade, and relations between Kings through the art of diplomacy, it shall be restored to France sooner or later. As it is, however, the number of voices I hear speaking English is remarkable alongside those voices which are French. I have no idea where this Dovecote place might be, but I am startled to note that Cromwell has extracted a small book from his saddlebag, and is consulting it. It seems that he does not know where it is, either.

After a few moments' perusal, he nods, and looks up again, "There," he says, "we must make for the Market Hall, for the Dovecote is on a small road that leads away from the Marketplace."

The sight of a market is rather comforting to me in my sense of uncertainty, for the market hall at the northern end of the great square is as unlike any building I have ever seen, as it is built in a similar fashion to those that were in Duinkerke, and looks very strange to my resolutely English eyes, while, at the other end, a great watchtower stands, a brooding monster that must afford excellent views out to sea. At least I can understand all that is spoken around me - or at least most of it - and the goods being sold are no different from any that would be sold in any market square in England. There are no fish stalls, however, for that trade takes place at the quayside.

We leave the square via a narrow lane that snakes between tall houses with gabled upper storeys that push out overhead somewhat. As Cromwell dismounts, I do likewise, for now we must move slowly so that we can find the dove. Being as hopelessly unobservant as I am, it comes as a surprise to me that I see it first, "There, Tom."

He nods, and raps the door knocker, but he does not need to give the supposed password, for the woman within looks at him, then behind him, where his swords rest upon his saddle. Her eyes widen, and she nods most respectfully, "Welcome Raven."

"Madame," He answers, "Forgive my carelessness in my advanced age."

She laughs as she summons a boy to take our horses through to the yard behind the house, "Come through - I am Madame Palomer, welcome to my Duiventil."

'Palomer': how suitable - though it may be that it is a false name, for it is a nickname that means 'pigeon keeper'. I wonder if she truly is called that.

Rather than take us through to the large parlour that I can see through an open door, instead she stops at the wall and reaches up to a hook that protrudes from it, which causes a large expanse of panelling to free itself from the wall slightly. Now I understand how it is that these places can accept visitors who are not members of the Order.

Beyond the door is a short passage which leads to a staircase that takes us up to a higher storey, and through to what must be an entire second residence that cannot be accessed from the first, though this also has a means of exit to the streets - presumably to enable those present to emerge without being seen if they are being followed. I wonder if all Dovecotes are arranged so.

The rooms here are very well appointed, and I am relieved to find that the place even has a bathhouse of sorts. Indeed, in the time that we have been greeted and guided up here, our belongings have been removed from our saddles and are already in the bedchamber that has been set aside for us, while a hot meal awaits our attention in the main chamber, along with a number of sealed letters for Cromwell, and one for me.

I have never eaten a rabbit stew, for such fare would have been considered to be beneath a man of my station - but I feel, tasting this, that I have been the poorer for it. The bread is equally excellent, though it is not the finest manchet bread but instead a rougher loaf with a thick crust that is flecked with rye. Cromwell is perusing his letters as he eats, for the stew is of such consistency that it can be eaten with a spoon, but I prefer to leave my missive until after I have dined, for I can see that it has been sent by Cecil, but it is not from him; it is from Agnes.

"We are to report to Paris, Richie." Cromwell advises, as he sets down his spoon and reaches for a cup of cider, "While Falcon's Second does not have a house to rival Grant's Place, we shall gather there, for it is of a good size and well located. The King himself is presently at his palace of Fontainebleau, which is some distance away from the city, so we shall not need to be secretly conveyed into any palaces, as Falcon will find some pretext to come back."

Cromwell spends the afternoon with Madame Palomer, discussing the road to Paris, while I retire to the other side of the room to read Agnes's letter to me. It is, I am not surprised to find, brief and somewhat undisciplined, for she has dictated it to Winifrede, who has set it down _verbatim_ ; but it professes her love, and her hopes that I shall be well on my journey. I am surprised, however, to find that she has said nothing of the true purpose of my travels - for even as young as she is, she knows that she must not, as Winifrede does not share our secret. Furthermore, she has written a small note at the end that is very hard to read, for her hand is not yet steady. Amidst the blots and spatterings of ink, is another message telling me to be safe, and trusting that the Raven shall protect me. As he has done that for ten years or more, I have no doubt that he shall continue to do so, as I am almost certain to need such protection.

By the time we sup, I have written a letter in return to Agnes, telling her of my embarrassing sea-sickness, and how different things are - though there is little else that I can say. Madame Palomer has already sealed it and set it with other documents to be dispatched to Cecil, and Cromwell is assured of the route that we shall take to Paris, and also where to go once we are there, "It shall take us two days, Richie, so I fear we shall be obliged to find shelter tomorrow night."

"Then I hope that it shall not rain."

* * *

The horses are moving at a simple walk, and the sun is filtering to the ground through a multitude of leaves that coat the trees that line the road. We have long since left behind the town, and now we are travelling through countryside that is scattered with farms. It seems so familiar - and yet it looks utterly unlike all that I know of the English countryside; the way that the farms are built, the manner in which the fields lie. Somehow, it seems indefinably different.

Other things, however, remain the same - for there are people here who have much, and others who have nothing; but here the responsibility for caring for the destitute still remains with the religious houses - and many here are as disinterested as some were in England.

"There are no poor laws here, Richie." Cromwell sighs, as we ride towards a woman who holds out her hand in hope, her ragged children huddled close to her. Without hesitation, he reaches into a pouch at his waist, produces a few small coins and reaches down to give them to her, "Furthermore, there are no efforts to reform the tax system - for the nobility of France insist that they must be exempt from taxation, and hold on to their ancient requirement to provide men in times of war. That the need to do so is no longer true means nothing. Thus the poor are taxed, but the rich are not."

"Our nobility are resisting his Majesty's efforts at home as well, Tom." I remind him.

"Perhaps so - but all is changing, and the old ways are becoming obsolete. His Majesty is surrounded by men who appreciate that things cannot continue as they are, and I have great hopes that those who see men of wealth absolved of any requirement to pay taxes shall see that state of affairs come to an end. It is not so here. King Henry seems intent upon pleasing his nobles more than his people."

That may be so - but from what little I know of French politics, the King's position is far less assured than that of King Edward - and so he must balance noble factions against one another to a degree that the English King no longer needs to do. Would he dare to risk uniting them all against him by demanding that they pay taxes? But then - even if he does, the number of peasants is such that all hell could break loose should they be suitably provoked; and the burden of taxation that is laid upon those who have little wealth, but not shared by those who have great wealth might prove to be such a spark.

"All it would take would be a run of bad harvests, Richie." Cromwell adds, as we carry on, "Being required to pay taxes when they cannot even afford grain to make bread would be a sufficient provocation if the wealthy are free to dine upon the finest of foods without fear of giving any of their riches to the Crown."

Now that he has drawn my attention to the matter, I find myself looking at the countryside with new eyes. Yes, the fields are bountiful with growing grain, but those who work those fields are poorly dressed and do not gain much from their employment, for they do not own the land. Those who do probably never see the wretched existence of those who labour there. I suspect that Cromwell shall dispatch a report back to Cecil, and it shall not be long before the King and council consider further amendments to the Poor Laws to aid those who might share such distressing circumstances. At least that is my hope. I dread to imagine the tide of blood that might flow should the people of France rise against their King and nobles.

As we continue, however, it is clear I have rather taken it upon myself to jump to a conclusion that is not entirely correct - and that some landowners are more conscientious of their workers than others, for our road also takes us through well tended villages where those who live look well fed and well clothed - though it is clear that they work as hard as any of their class. A Friar in grey robes is busy outside his small hermitage tending to a bandage upon the foot of an injured ploughman, and somewhere inside a cottage alongside the track, I can hear a woman singing a rather beautiful folk tune that I have never heard before. Again, I wish that I was more musically inclined than I am, for I have never been able to maintain a rhythm in my head, nor were my attempts to master musical instruments even remotely successful. I know that, were I to raise it in song, my voice is rather good - but what use is that if I cannot count a rhythm?

Beside me, Cromwell does not speak, but his contentment is surprising, for he seems absolutely at ease in a way that I have never seen him before. There are no factions now, no men plotting to destroy him - nor does he have any obligation to protect a Court full of people who despise him for his base-birth. For the first time in more than thirty years, he is absolutely free to be his own man, and to live the life that he had once envisaged sharing with Joachim. Instead, however, he is sharing it with me.

Hunger drives us to pause at a well tended farm, where Cromwell negotiates some bread and cheese for our dinner, which the Goodwife permits us to eat in the shade of a large tree that stands alongside the farmyard. The bread is rough, but tasty, while the cheese is soft enough to be spread upon the slices of bread with a knife, but has a sharp, clean taste unlike any cheeses that I have encountered in England. The cider is cold from a cellar, and not too sweet, and Cromwell is cutting chunks of apple from the small pile that has been provided, and sets them upon his bread and cheese before consuming it. Above us somewhere, a dove is calling, and the air is busy with the buzzing of insects and the song of birds. My God - I never thought that life could be so sweet as this.

"We shall need to consider where we shall sleep tonight." He advises as we mount up to continue, "The Farmer's wife warned me that the weather is likely to turn this afternoon, and I think her to be right - for the air is becoming quite heavy. I suspect that there shall be storms later - though we may be lucky and find ourselves in a place where they are not."

Alas, however, we are not lucky - and by late afternoon, the sky above our heads is becoming worryingly leaden, while the wind rises, and I am sure that I have heard thunder in the distance. We are nowhere near any inhabited place, travelling along a rough track that is the only thoroughfare available to us. God knows where we shall seek shelter once the rain comes.

"I fear, Richie," Cromwell sighs, "That tonight shall be the night that causes you to decide whether or not your decision was a wise one - for it may be that we shall have no alternative other than to find a barn, or roll ourselves up in our cloaks and endure."

Oh, hell - and it was but a matter of hours ago that I thought myself to be all but in heaven.

While our bedrolls and possessions are wrapped in oiled canvas, we are not, and the wall of wet that is coming towards us looks horrifying. Some of it has white streaks in it, which suggests hail. How ironic that I shall move from being glad of my decision, to regretting it, in the course of a single afternoon.

Cromwell points, but his words are lost in a massive clap of thunder that causes both our horses to shy violently. Fortunately, neither of us are thrown, and both Benedict and Urban are trusting enough of us not to bolt - but as soon as the noise dies away, he speaks, "Over there - it has only three sides, but it has a roof, and that shall do. Quickly!"

As we hasten from the track across an open field, I realise that it is indeed a rather dilapidated barn. Some of the roof has gone, but enough remains to shelter us from the rain that is beginning to drench us as we are engulfed in the downpour - and any shelter is better than none.

The farm buildings beyond are abandoned, and look to have been destroyed in a conflagration some time ago, so none shall demand that we remove ourselves from their property. The cottage has no roof - just charred joists and trusses - so it is indeed the barn or nothing. Fortunately, the main portion of standing roof is sound, and thus we are able to set ourselves well back from the rain that is hammering down outside - and there is even a pile of wood that must have been kept here to stock the fireplace in the destroyed farmhouse. With a wide expanse of tamped earth upon which to build a fire, we can abandon our sodden cloaks, and have both warmth and light other than the vivid lightning that is the only illumination available to us in the growing darkness that accompanies the storm.

Having never successfully lit a fire, I watch carefully as Cromwell gathers some dry straw from the rotting remains of a small rick that stands well away from us, and extracts some dry moss from a small pouch in his saddle bag. At his instruction, I gather some of the smaller pieces of wood in the pile, and he sets them carefully upon the floor, leaving a small gap into which I assume he shall insert the kindling. It is most embarrassing that I did not think to include a flint and steel when I gathered my possessions together for this journey - but Cromwell shows me how to use his, and I am quite fascinated as the kindling catches, while he gathers up the straw and gently blows upon it to coax the flames to grow enough to transfer to the wood that is ready for it.

In a short time, we have a fire to warm us - but we have no means to secure any food upon which to sup, and I look at the fire rather glumly, for I am ravenous. For the first time in my life, I am hungry - but there is no meal awaiting me.

"There is nothing more pleasurable than hunger in anticipation of food, is there, Richie?" Cromwell smiles at me, rather ruefully.

"And nothing more miserable than hunger in the knowledge that there is none." I admit in return.

He turns back to the saddle that is resting over a rail, and burrows into the saddlebag, "It is not much, but I purchased another half-loaf from the Farmer's wife, along with one of her small, hard cheeses. The bread is one of her old loaves, so it is rather stale - but I think we can revive it if we toast it, and I have more apples, so toasted bread, toasted cheese and roasted apples shall make us a fair hot supper."

Jesu, I am useless. It had not occurred to me to purchase more supplies before we left the Farm. I have much to learn, I fear.

I feel rather miserable at my hopeless inability to be helpful, and I look about at our surroundings rather morosely, until I see a small iron pot not far away, which is doing nothing more than gathering rainwater. It has not been there long, for there is no rust upon it, but it might well prove to be useful, so I fetch it across for Cromwell to examine.

"This is a good find." He approves as he looks it over, "The iron is sound, and there are no cracks, while the handle is intact. Give me a moment to construct a means to suspend it, and we shall have at least some hot water in which to wash, and to drink - for there is no cider, and rainwater is at least not contaminated by filth. In fact," he adds, turning to look behind us, "there may yet be some items of use to us in the farmhouse."

And again he embarrasses me at my ineptitude, for he races across to the ruin of the farmhouse, and returns a few minutes later with an iron tripod from which he can hang the cauldron, as well as a large trivet upon which he could stand it over a fire if he wished - or upon which he can set the skillet that he has also retrieved. I would not have thought to go there, nor would I have had any idea what to select if I had.

"There is nothing else of any use to us there, I fear." He says shaking the rain off as best he can, "But this shall prove useful to us if we are unable to secure a bed for the night."

Suddenly, I am almost in tears. Once again, I am of no use to my Silver Sword - for I am a pampered, overly wealthy fool who has never been obliged to live hand-to-mouth. I am drenched, I am cold. My supper has been nothing more than a slice of stale bread and cheese, and all that I have to sleep on now is the ground. Why the hell did I agree to do this? Why did I think it would be a magnificent adventure?

"I want to go home." I whimper, suddenly. And then my self-pity is more than I can endure, and I am crying.

There is no scorn in Cromwell's expression - for he knows that I have never known this kind of life. He has not lived so for many years - but for him it is a mere matter of readjustment. Instead, he sits alongside me, his arm about my shoulders, "It is hard, Richie - I know that it is hard; and I am glad that it is happening now, for I should rather you express it now than allow your resentment to grow until it is unendurable."

"I know you warned me." I weep, "I know that you told me that it would be like this - but I did not understand, not until this moment. I am not strong enough to live this way…"

"That is because you have not learned to." He reminds me, kindly, "Once, you were a man who had no true courage - but I think courage is like a muscle, it can only grow if it is worked and tested. Endurance is the same. I am indeed more fortunate than you, for I have lived this way before - nay, I lived in worse conditions even than this, for I was half starved and in little more than rags when I came to the house of Frescobaldi. Believe me, I am loathing this as much as you are - but I am able to keep the misery more at bay, for I have known worse than this. We are, by our nature, able to adapt to our surroundings - and you shall, too; though it seems impossible to you at this moment."

I look up, forcing myself to blink away tears, and then I freeze, "Tom - something is approaching."

Then he is sniffing, "I think you are right."

"Ravener?"

"I think so - and one that is truly hungry, for what can it devour here?"

"Then let us put it out of its misery." In an instant, my pathetic distress is forgotten - at last, something at which I am relatively competent.

The rain has let up, and a thin moonlight is illuminating the farmyard. For a moment, we cannot see where the intruder might be - but then Cromwell catches my wrist, and points upwards to the roof of a lean-to alongside the remains of the cottage, "I think our firelight must have attracted it - God it is thin. It must be at the point of starving to be willing to approach fire."

It is a simple matter to call my sword to me, for Cromwell has left his blades in the barn. He would not have forgotten them - so it seems that he intends me to deal with this creature. It hisses from its vantage point, and leaps forth, for I am a warm, living being that it can torment for its pleasure - and it has not fed for God alone knows how long.

My clumsiness shall always be a hobble to me, but I am at least faster than I used to be, and I evade it easily enough. Despite there being two of us, it seems quite fixated upon me, and I wonder if it sees only the one that intends to kill, even if there are others present. Perhaps it does - but it means that it is entirely intent upon a man who can destroy it, while it ignores one who has no means to do so.

It may be a French ravener, but it is no different in its behaviour than an English one, and I am able to dispatch it with relative ease. Even as it falls to dust, I find that I am feeling altogether better. I do not want to go home. No, I shall set aside such childish self-pity and weakness. I want to continue the fight - and if being upon the road is the means to do it, then I shall accept it.

* * *

I am told that the City of Paris is older than London - but that does not surprise me, for Kings once lived and ruled from Winchester, which was considered to be the greatest City in England until London outgrew and eclipsed it. Regardless of whether it is older or not, however, it is similar in many aspects, for it is as filthy, crowded and busy with people as any of the streets of Cheapside, or Southwark; or the great sprawl of rude buildings that extend away from Westminster Palace over the rather dubious ground upon which our great City stands.

Falcon's Second, a man by the name of Francis Pelletier, is a jovial, welcoming individual with a bookish face and rather odd little eyeglasses that have enormously thick rims, but are held to his face by ribbons that are caught around his ears. His house, a large place that bears a dove on the lintel to signify that it is a Dovecote, also has a hidden passage that leads to a separate building where Order matters are conducted. How strange it is - had a visitor come to Grant's Place, then they would have been seen in the same place as any other. Here, on the other hand, it is different.

"Please, be seated Raven - come, allow me to take your cloak Mr Rich." He says, in excellent, accentless English, "I trust that your journey was not too uncomfortable?"

He offers us warmed wine and a delightful selection of comfits as he continues to chatter; but as he does so, I begin to realise that it is a disguise for his rather excited deference towards us. Cromwell is, of course, the Raven - the greatest of Silver Swords, but his admiration seems also to extend to me, and I am rather disconcerted by it. I had hoped that there would be a sense of union between us as Seconds, rather than admiration and deference - but then Pelletier has never lifted a sword and fought alongside Falcon.

There are more letters for Cromwell, though the only communication for me is from Cecil, as he has not had time to send another missive from Agnes. He reports that matters of state are still excellently stable, that the Council has not yet managed to sink into an idiotic slough of rivalry and pettiness, and that marriage negotiations are well under way between England, France and the Duchy of Lorraine over a potential marriage between Edward and Elisabeth. The two have even met - and seem not to hate each other, for they are both still very young.

As Cecil is our only contact at Court now, I assume that I am to be the primary conduit for information about what is happening in England, until I see that one of the messages to Cromwell has the seal of Seymour, and I realise that he has received a letter from the Regent - though her perspective of matters concerning governance shall almost certainly be less incisive than Cecil's, for she lacks his political acumen.

"It is intended for both of us, Richie," He advises, as he sips at his wine, "her Majesty merely seeks to know that we are well, and to advise us that we are both sorely missed at Court. Prince Henry had a minor fall from a horse, but is not severely injured, while the Lady Elizabeth and the Hawk are now betrothed to be married, and shall wed before the summer is gone."

Trust Cecil to forget that.

I am most grateful to find that Pelletier is very enlightened in terms of cleanliness, for there is a good-sized bathhouse attached to our accommodation that I am most grateful to make use of. Having been unable to do much more than wash my face, I feel most dreadfully grubby and stiff after two days in the saddle, and a night in a barn, and to soak in hot water is deeply welcome. I know full well that there shall be few opportunities to do this once we leave Paris, but I am determined that, wherever I am billeted when we reach Milan, there shall be a bathhouse present. I do not care that some believe it unhealthy; I find it a pleasure, and thus I shall indulge myself when I am in a permanent residence again.

By the time I am dressed in a borrowed suit of clothes more akin to those that I wore at Court, Falcon has arrived, and he is in conversation with Cromwell when I return to the main chamber. An excellent supper has been laid out for us all, and it seems that Falcon is as jovial and friendly as his Second. Furthermore, their bond with one another is very similar to that which I share with Cromwell - perhaps it is the way with all Silver Swords and their Seconds.

"We watch matters in England with much interest," Falcon says, again in perfect English, as he carves at a leg of mutton, "The proposals you made to reform taxation seem to be taking root, and it is a matter that I intend to try to bring to the attention of his Majesty. It shall not be easy, alas, for I do not hold the degree of political power that you gained."

"I was fortunate in that respect," Cromwell admits, "It was Wolsey's view that my place at Court should be as elevated as possible, as the risk to us all was such that only access to the King, and his favour, would serve the needs of the Mission. It came with many risks - as I discovered when Campofregoso acted against us - but it saved us all in the end. It also gave me many opportunities to do what I could to improve the lot of those Englishmen who had no land or wealth."

Falcon does not refer to Cromwell's work to reform the Church; for France has not done the same, so those who follow reformed teachings are in the dreadful position of being tolerated on one day, but despised the next - depending upon the King's policy at the time. That they push so hard for reform in France as well is not likely to aid their cause; for their King does not view the Pope with such animosity as our Henry did. Even as we rode through the streets of Paris, I could sense that air of tension - or perhaps Shadowsight could, and warned me of it - I have a dreadful feeling that it shall lead to much spilling of blood if a resolution cannot be found.

Matters move on to the plans that the High has sent to Cromwell - suggesting that he travel through France, and then pass through the Swiss Confederacy, before turning back to travel through Savoy, where the mountain passes are lower, and from there to the Duchy of Milan, "Though he does suggest that his reasons for travelling to Savoy are for our convenience - for it is the Confederacy he wishes us to visit. It seems that there are some degrees of discontent amongst the Cantons that might lead to its collapse - and he wishes to be sure that it is not demonic in origin. Should we prefer to pass through the mountains and make our way directly to Milan, he gives us leave to do so."

Pelletier nods, "The Cantons are not unified by a single agreement - but instead by various treaties and pacts that oblige them all to preserve the peace, arbitrate between one another in disputes and to aid one another in military endeavours - be they defensive or offensive. As the Confederacy is well defended by mountains that surround it, opportunities to invade are limited. Most do not try - particularly now that our nations are becoming more peacefully disposed to one another. Consequently, the bellicose men of each Canton have no one against whom they can flex their muscles, and so become discontented and look for reasons to pick fights."

"Largely over religion." Falcon adds, though his tone is as diplomatic as he can make it. The Order is, of course, open to all faiths and discriminates between none.

"If it were not over religion," Cromwell smiles, "It would be over something else. Men are ever eager to test their mettle in war, and thus look for any _casus belli_ that they can find; no matter how trivial it might seem to the rest of us."

"Do you think it likely that there is demonic influence involved?" I ask, keenly, "Perhaps if we perused your library, Mr Pelletier?"

"Francis - please call me Francis; we are Seconds both, are we not?" he smiles at me, "Alas, I fear that my accumulation of papers is humiliatingly small in comparison to yours. We did not have a Second with the foresight of the late Cardinal Wolsey, and thus I have had little to work with - though my own activities have supplemented the archive at least a little."

"If you would excuse us?" I ask.

"Please do, Gentlemen." Falcon smiles at us, and I note that Cromwell is equally pleased - for I have found a purpose again.

* * *

Pelletier was not false in his statement that his library is very poor in comparison to mine - but mine is, I am told, of a size to rival the great Archive in Milan, so I would be churlish to criticise. Better, I think, to start with the political status of this Confederacy of which I know nothing at all, "How is the Confederacy governed, Francis?"

"Lightly, Richard. There are thirteen Cantons - that is, small regions that are essentially small countries in their own right - and they are largely autonomous - so what little oversight of the Confederacy as a whole is undertaken by a Diet - which they call the Tagsatzung. It meets a few times each year - at one time it would be held in different Cantons, chaired by the host Canton, but these days it is always chaired by the Canton of Zürich - but meets in the town of Baden bei Zürich."

"If that is so, then I assume that any action against this Diet would cause little disturbance to the governance of the Cantons themselves?"

"I think that would be so." He agrees, "Though I have no doubt that there would be arguments and much hurling of blame should such an action occur - and that might affect the accumulation of treaties and pacts that hold the Dreizehn Orte together."

"So our next consideration would be: who would benefit the most if this confederacy should falter?" I muse, for the Confederacy is not England - it is surrounded by mountains, yes but not Sea. Or perhaps it is the fact that England is now so well defended that has caused this to occur?

"It is difficult to say." Pelletier admits, "I have been giving the matter much thought - for the Confederacy relies upon the export of textiles, cheese and mercenaries - and also to act as a centre of trade for those coming in from the East, though much of the true wealth of that market belongs to the Venetians and Florentines. Other than control of trade routes - which could be subverted easily enough should the taxation become too onerous - I can think of no worthwhile reason why any of our ruling monarchs would wish to take it."

"Then perhaps those of infernal origin have decided to abandon their concentration upon England, and now look to another place that can be defended?"

"That was my thought, too." Pelletier sighs, "And there I was forced to halt - for I have no documentation that might aid me in identifying whether a demon might indeed be attempting to overturn a hitherto largely stable nation. The only way to be certain is to go there; for, as there is no Court within the Confederacy, there is no Court Silver Sword, and thus we must rely upon Itinerants who are limited in what they can do, for they have no access to the Canton governors."

Already, I can see what he is thinking, for I am thinking the same, "Then we must turn to a highly placed, well respected politician?"

"Our minds are meeting, Richard." Pelletier grins at me.

"I think we should write to William."

"Definitely."

* * *

"So, we are to be envoys from the Court of King Edward." Cromwell muses, looking over my draft letter to Cecil, "Presumably with a view to opening up stronger trade connections with the textile producers of the Confederacy?"

"That is so - for it would seem appropriate to make overtures to the wool and textile producers of central Europe on behalf of those who are engaged in the same work in England. Now that peace seems to be established, it would not be unexpected. You are both a highly respected Court official - albeit retired - and you have traded in textiles, too. Who better?"

"I have not operated my cloth business for many years, Richie - I sold it, remember?" He seems quite unnerved at the prospect - something that I have never seen in him before.

"But your reputation is strong, Tom. Why would their Majesties not choose you to undertake such a task as this? That we need to investigate the stability of the Confederacy as a whole is merely a fortunate opportunity that lies alongside a trade mission. Being new to the nation, we would need to meet with the representatives of the Diet in order to know which Cantons are most involved in the trades that can be made with England."

"Politics." Cromwell sighs with a slight smile, "And I thought myself to be done with politics."

While we wait for our credentials to be drafted and dispatched to us, we spend the time with Pelletier discussing the state of the Confederacy, and establishing where we should concentrate our efforts in relation to trade. Cromwell has called in some favours with old trading colleagues to provide him with bolts of the finest quality cloths and wools, and is rediscovering - much to his dismay - that he has forgotten far more of the knowledge that he once had in undertaking such trade himself than he would have liked.

"The manufacture of textiles is largely concentrated in the region of a town by the name of St Gallen, which is a member of the Confederacy, and thus there shall be representatives at the Diet." Pelletier advises, burrowing through a set of poorly drawn maps, "While the Canton is autonomous, it would be considered to be courteous to make one's first approach through the Tagsatzung. Given the precarious nature of politics in the Confederacy, most who wish to forge new trade relations do so by dealing first with the representatives of all of the Cantons, in order to avoid disputes over perceived underhand dealings."

"Shall there be any from the Order present?" Cromwell asks, keenly.

"Wolf shall attend - for while he is an Itinerant, he is the most experienced of the Silver Swords in the Confederacy and knows most of the representatives by sight if not personally. He acts as the Secretary to the Diet - and thus lives in Zurich, though he has also recently purchased a house in Luzern, as he is thinking that the instability is rooted there. I know little of his discoveries - he can apprise you of them when you meet him."

"I take it he shall be in Baden when we arrive?"

Pelletier nods, "There is a Dovecote in a house on the Church Square - it is not far from the Stadthaus, which has a room specially set aside for the Tagsatzung, as the town is the preferred meeting point both for its central location and its hot springs. He shall be in residence a month prior, as there is much to be organised."

We are to enter the Confederacy via Basel, which is particularly well suited as it is at the very border of with France and the wider nations that fall under the rule of the Holy Roman Emperor, and is considered to be a great meeting point for traders of all nations. There we shall present our credentials, and shall be met by another of the Silver Swords in the Confederacy - who holds the Eagle blades. By the time the documentation is delivered to us, signed by the King and the Regent, and marked with the Great Seal for which I once held responsibility, we are ready to depart, our route agreed, our goods supplied - and a small entourage of men sent from Calais to accompany us as befits our newly-assigned diplomatic state.

It embarrasses me to admit it to myself, but to travel as a diplomat and trade representative is a far better thing than to travel as a vagabond, and it is a pleasure to be admitted to good inns and treated to the finest of foods and ales rather than obliged to seek out whatever we can buy from farmhouses, while seeking shelter in barns. I am, it seems, wholly unsuited to the life of an itinerant.

The land through which we travel was once intensely disputed between Kings - and could still be again if the present peace failed to hold. As it is, however, the fields are being harvested now, and the people around us prepare for the winter to come as I am given to understand that they are far harsher even than those that we experienced in England. I hope, then, that we are safely arrived in Milan by the time the first snows fall.

Our destination in Basel is another Dovecote, this one in the oddly named 'Sattelgasse' off the Market Square. As Eagle has arranged to meet us at the border with France, however, we shall not be obliged to seek it out. As it is a week's ride away, I am even more grateful that we are now travelling in a more wealthy manner.

Falcon rides with us as far as Troyes, as he clearly greatly admires Cromwell, and the two are most content to discuss matters of joint interest. As our escort consists of Englishmen, who may - or may not - have some facility with French, Cromwell and Falcon speak to one another largely in Latin, and thus I am able to follow the conversation, while those around us cannot. It may be that French has superseded Latin to some degree as a diplomatic language, it has not done so to such an extent that our escort wonder why we use it, as it is still the Scholar's language, and thus widely spoken by those with an education.

I suppose I should be rather irked that I am unable to contribute much to their discussions - for they talk of matters that mean little to me. I know nothing of the House, or its daily routine - as it is not relevant for me to know it. Thus I know merely that it is in Milan, and I shall learn the rest of it when I get there. Instead, I listen to their talk, but otherwise concentrate on what is around me, for the countryside is rather lovely, and even less like that which I would expect to see in England - for I have never travelled in a country of such size as this. I thought England to be large - but if that is so, then France is utterly beyond comprehension. If there are lands of even greater size, then I dread to imagine how on earth people can even manage to speak a language in common.

We spend our last night in France in a very fine inn in the town of Belfort, and dine well upon an excellently roasted duck, with bread steaming from the oven, and rather more ale than I think is good for me. As I lean back in my chair and try very hard not to fall asleep, I see that Cromwell is poring over yet more documents, and scribbling on a small sheet of rag paper.

"I wish to be rid of our escort at the first opportunity, Richie," he advises quietly, as he works, "Thus it is my intention to divest myself of the bolts of cloth while we are in Basel, for there is a small guild of cloth traders there who represent the interests of a large number of parties. It would seem worthwhile to make initial contacts here - and then go on to Baden to introduce our diplomatic credentials to the Tagsatzung. Most would do likewise - and we shall ensure that we are introduced to the representatives in Baden by Wolf. It shall not be helpful to have a gaggle of uninitiated Englishmen watching our every move once we are at work upon our true purpose."

"I shall leave that to you, Tom." I advise him, drowsily, "For I am well versed in property transactions, as are you - but I know nothing at all about the cloth trade."

He looks up, and then smiles at me as I stifle an enormous yawn, "I suggest you retire. Rejuvenated I may be, but I suspect even I could not hope to carry you upstairs should you fall asleep in that chair."

"Then I shall do so. I shall see you anon."

He nods, and returns to his papers as I rise from the chair and make my way upstairs to my bedchamber. Tomorrow, I shall begin politicking once more - something I had thought I would never be obliged to do again. And I can hardly wait.


	31. The Thirteen States

**A/N:** Thanks for your comments Catalinadelvalle - I'm glad that you're enjoying the Foreign Tour!

So far, it's been a remarkable experience - but, as often happens, things are shortly to take a much darker turn...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One

 _The Thirteen States_

I stare around myself, helplessly. I am surrounded by people, and yet I understand not one word that they speak. The buildings look most unfamiliar to me, and I feel almost like a child out for the first time with his father. God, how embarrassing; I thought myself to be more cosmopolitan than this.

That Cromwell is equally puzzled by the language that is being spoken is little consolation, for if he is as unnerved as I, then he does not show it. On the contrary - he looks to be at ease, and his discussions with Eagle are jovial, albeit in Latin again. But then, he has travelled in Europe before, and thus the great Marktplatz of Basel is far less unfamiliar to him than it is to me.

While I can usually recognise another Silver Sword these days by the manner in which they carry themselves, I was rather embarrassed at my failure to do so when we crossed the Border. How he recognised Eagle when we arrived at the barrier that divides the road between France and the Canton of Basel, God only knows, for no one there seemed to move in that rather distinctive fashion - and he approached a man seemingly at random and mentioned, in French, that he had seen the words ' _gladiis elegit me_ ' carved upon the post that held the barrier, and wondered what it meant. The man had cheerfully said that he did not know, but that someone had incised ' _et elegit caestus_ ' into a tree nearby, and he was equally baffled at that comment. Perhaps students from the University playing tricks?

I felt it wise to keep my mouth thoroughly shut - and I am still very glad that I did.

The buildings that surround the great marketplace are magnificent, but the square is dominated by the great Rathaus - a most bizarre sounding word to my resolutely English mind. Enormous, painted a rich, dark red with a tall tower at the west-most end, and a smaller one at the east-most, while the roofs are tiled with coloured tiles set into intricate patterns that are most pleasing to the eye. We have nothing like this in England. Nothing at all. Such is the great wealth of the traders here, I suppose.

Sattelgasse is a narrow lane that leads away from the Marktplazt in a northerly direction. The Dovecote here is as ornately decorated as any other building, while the dove carved into the door lintel is artfully styled, "Forgive the ostentation, gentlemen," Eagle advises us as he opens the door and indicates that we enter, "In a town of such wealth, to be conspicuously wealthy draws less attention than to be conspicuously poor."

As is always the case with a _Duiventil_ , the entrance to those rooms reserved for the Order is carefully concealed, and we find ourselves in an upper room looking through narrow windows across other rooftops, while the tall tower of the Rathaus peeks atop them. Even here, the decoration is opulent, and the furniture very fine. After the altogether rougher conditions in both Calais and Paris, even Cromwell seems rather startled.

"If you think this is overdone," Eagle continues, his smile widening to an amused grin, "I wish that I could see your faces when you arrive in Baden. The outside may be considerably less well appointed, but the inside looks fit to accommodate the very Bishop of Rome himself."

The meal that we are served is largely similar to any that we have eaten since we left England, though I am most bemused by the strange practice of melting cheese before the fire, and scraping the melted cheese onto bread - which Eagle calls 'Bratchäs' - but is is remarkably delicious, particularly with the delicate, white wine that is served with it.

The English escort that was provided to us has departed, paid off at the border on the pretext that Eagle has hired local men to act in that capacity. As the goods that we are carrying are now stored in the yard behind the Dovecote, they are not needed - which shall make life much more simple for us to travel without fear our true intentions being discovered by those who are travelling with us.

Eagle leaves us in peace, as he has further arrangements to make for our onward journey, and almost as soon as he has gone, Cromwell turns to me, "I am sorry, Richie; I did not mean to leave you bereft while we travelled here from the border. This must be hard for you - I at least have some understanding of what is being said, as it is strongly based upon the German language, and thus there are only mild differences between that and the tongue that I spoke to Joachim."

Of course he would have noticed that I was feeling lost. When has he not noticed when I am out of sorts?

"It is nothing, Tom. I am not as accustomed to travelling from one country to another as you are. I am learning to adapt - and at least I can understand your words when you converse in Latin." I hope that he is assured that I shall not burst into tears again and lament that I wish to go home. For I have, I think, emerged from that now. While I find my surroundings deeply unnerving, I am also curious in a manner that was not present when I first departed England. I know so little about these lands - and thus do not see how it is that they have built their houses so differently, or why they dress in the manner that they do. Rather than remaining close minded, I am now interested instead.

Cromwell, on the other hand, is looking rather tense, and fidgets rather, "I feel underemployed." He admits, in response to my query, "Eagle is the one who hunts here, for I lack the knowledge of these streets to do so. After so many years holding sole responsibility for the safety of the English Court, I find it most difficult to remain indoors when once I hunted."

"Then perhaps being obliged to sell cloth tomorrow shall lift your spirits?" I ask, smirking; for I know he was happy to abandon that trade when the opportunity arose to do so.

"Thank you for reminding me." He says.

"I am happy to oblige."

* * *

We do not emerge to the Marketplace; for, in common with most cities, the trade in cloth takes place in a large hall nearby. As I emerge from the House into the yard, I note that Cromwell is examining the bolts of cloth that we brought with us most carefully, "I thought never to be obliged to do this again, Richie," he admits, "but it is truly astonishing how quickly I have rediscovered the knowledge that I abandoned when I sold the business."

"That is good to know," I acknowledge, "For I should be utterly unable to deal with any of the traders; my knowledge of business is in the art of property speculation."

"The dark art." Cromwell smiles.

"In my case, _very_ dark." I admit. In those days, I was not a remotely honest man.

As I do have some facility to record financial transactions, I shall be present in the guise of Cromwell's clerk. We are, once again, Mr Wyckes and Mr Empshott in these surroundings - pretending that we are part of the entourage of the Regent's Trade Mission. I have no doubt that all would believe without hesitation that His Grace the Earl of Essex would not deign to walk amongst tradesmen, instead sending one of his train to do the work in his place.

If he was surprised at how much of his former skill he had remembered, I am equally astonished at how expert he seems to appear. He can identify different cloths by look and touch, as well as the weight of each type. As the language of the Market seems to be French, rather than the local version of the German language, we are both able to participate, and I note down the financial transactions that ensue, and the names, and towns, of those who buy. If nothing else, we shall send that information back to be used by traders in London and beyond.

Most of those who are present are friendly, and the bargaining is good-natured. I know nothing about the qualities of the cloth being discussed, and thus sit and attempt to keep up with the back-and-forth arguments over the price, as that in itself is an education for me - and of use for those who might wish to trade here.

By mid afternoon, all the bolts have been sold, and we are free to depart back to the Dovecote with rather an impressive sum of money, though I note that this shall remain, and only the information that we have gathered will return to England, "Her Majesty's instructions were that any funds raised from the sale of the cloth would be used to fund our expenses, Richie." Cromwell advises, "As we are working on behalf of the Crown again - she considered it a reasonable exchange."

I am grateful for that - for the cost of even the most basic items in Basel is shocking.

Eagle joins us to sup, and he has a bundle of communications from the House, and from London. I am delighted to find that one of the letters is from Agnes, while another is from Cecil, reporting on Hawk's progress in his Mission, "It seems that Mr Dudley is proving highly adept at dispatching raveners, Tom. Numbers remain stable - but they are rarely about the court for long. He is both efficient and enthusiastic. Furthermore, the pretence of minor enmity between him and William has proved to be a source of much amusement about the Court, and thus none pay attention to their activities."

"That has proved to be wise." Cromwell agrees, "Much as I would not have had it any other way, our reputation about the Court for being a David and Jonathan proved to be as much as a hindrance as a help at times. I suspect it would have been far easier for you to have countered Campofregoso's conspiracy had we not been considered to be as closely bonded as we were."

"Perhaps so - but it all worked out for the best in the end, did it not?"

There is no need to apprise Eagle of that rather unpleasant tale, for it was reported in full to the Order - but his expression is rather concerned, "I think it best to warn you that matters here are worsening by the day. The Oligarchs who rule Luzern are becoming most belligerent, and it is likely that any attempt that you make to present your credentials shall be set aside, for they have no wish for any other Canton to trade exclusively with another nation. That there is no cloth trade in Luzern is immaterial; any suggestion of favour to any individual member of the Confederacy appears to be sufficient to earn their enmity."

"Then we shall do what we can to ingratiate ourselves with them." Cromwell says, "If we are to discover what has caused them to behave in such manner, it would seem to be the best course."

"That would be a risky strategy." Eagle sighs, "It must be managed carefully, for they are as keen to find fault with flattery as with favouritism. It is most strange - the families of Lenzburg, Kyburg and Staufer have always been of the most sterling reputation. Thus it is our thought that some form of demonic activity has taken place."

"As is ours." Cromwell agrees, "It has happened in England on two unfortunate occasions, and now it happens here. With such control over the trade routes through central Europe, there would be much to lose if the Confederacy were to collapse - the potential for damaging conflict would be immense, and could set us back many years. It would not do to have large numbers of unemployed mercenaries looking for hire on an independent footing."

"In addition, much of this land is surrounded by high mountains." Eagle adds, "Thus it is hard to attack, and easy to defend. If demon-kind have failed in England, perhaps now they hope to succeed in the dissolution of the Dreizehn Orte."

"In which case," Cromwell says, firmly, "We shall stop them."

* * *

Such is the nature of our mission that we are not able to stay for long in Basel - which is a shame as I am rather coming to like the place. The people here seem friendly, as there are many visitors from all over Europe, and even from further east - for there are men from the Ottoman Empire here, and even men from Africa, whose ebony skin colour I have never seen before, though there are not many such visitors as they tend to congregate more in the great trading cities further south, such as Florence and Venice.

That said, we have spent some time forging connections with a wide range of traders from various Cantons; and, in doing so, gaining more information upon the problems that seem to be arising in Luzern. As Eagle told us, there are three aristocratic families in particular which seem to have taken control of government of the Canton, and have - until recently - done so both fairly and well. Over the last few months, however, something seems very much to have changed. From what we have discovered, many of the problems seem to revolve around the legacy of a man by the name of Ulrich Zwingli, who was an active Lutheran reformer - but who is long dead. Being located to the west, and the south, Luzern is very resistant to the flames driven up by his zeal - and thus remains staunchly Catholic in the face of equally determined adherence to the reforms of Luther by those Cantons further east and north. Zwingli was at the forefront of moves to end the trade of mercenaries for hire, that seems to have been a cause for dispute for some years - and, as Luzern is centre of that industry, perhaps the determination to prevent such a calamity has driven these families into the clutches of a demon.

If only I had access to my Library - for I cannot easily ask Cecil to provide me with a list of suggestions from his various indexes. He is in London, and I am here in Basel. Even carrier pigeons would not be fast enough to aid me - and thus we must walk into this matter all unprepared. But then, has there ever been a time when we have done otherwise?

"It would seem likely to me that the problem is indeed the matter of the risk to Luzern's trade in the hiring of mercenaries, Richie," Cromwell sighs, "Though how this demon has come upon the scene is impossible to determine, for we have no means of identifying the demon concerned."

"I am sorry that I cannot be more helpful, Tom." I sigh, rather sadly. I loathe being unable to offer Cromwell information to aid him.

"Do not be, Richie - I know that you are unable to secure the information and I do not expect you to do so without access to either your Library or the great Archive in Milan. We have, after all, acted without information before - and we have survived. Thus I am quite sure we shall do so again."

"And be as close to dying as previously." I add.

There are definite hints of autumn in the air as we depart in the light of early morning. Eagle shall not accompany us, and we have largely reverted to our previous mode of transport - roughly dressed and making use of simpler accommodation. That I am disappointed at this is something of an understatement; for I am truly unsuited to the life of a vagabond - despite my remarkable excitement at the prospect of spending time as an Itinerant. At least, however, I am not now on the verge of embarrassing tears.

The route that we shall take is winding, but is surprisingly well cared for. We travel through neat villages, and alongside well tended farms where cows that look nothing like those that we have in England chew the cud quietly, with enormous bells slung about their necks that emit a remarkably tinny sounding clang as the animals move their heads. Together, the herd offers a wonderfully drowsy sound as they rise, or walk to the byres for milking.

The farms are well spaced apart, and the farmers seem most accommodating to us - allowing us to rest our heads in their barns or even, in a few cases, in their homes. The food they sell us is rather costly, but the quality of it is such that it is truly worth the money. Bizarrely, I am beginning to enjoy this peripatetic life, and would rather not reach Baden at all. I know myself well enough, however, to be quite certain that it shall take but one rainstorm to change my mind.

Our hosts are also unaware that we even take care to patrol their accommodation overnight - and we have rendered several raveners down to dust as we have made our rather leisurely way east; but, before the week is out, we pass over the rise of a hill, and below us lies the town of Baden, tucked neatly into a river valley surrounded by verdant forests.

The town is far smaller than Basel, and equally less populated by those of other nations. We are viewed without much interest, for our garments suggest men of little means, and thus we pass through the streets without drawing attention to ourselves. As promised, the Dovecote is situated in a long row of tall houses that face onto a Church Square that is occupied by a church of remarkably little decoration on the outside - a mark of its Lutheran leanings, I believe - and we find that Eagle was right; the unprepossessing exterior of the Dovecote belies the astonishing degree of ostentation within. But then, Wolf is obliged to host members of the Tagsatzung on occasions, and they doubtless expect such luxury in the homes of those with whom they do business.

Wolf is not Swiss - but is instead from Tuscany. As is the case with all Silver Swords, his command of the tongue of the people amongst whom he lives is absolute and accentless to the degree that no one would know that he is not of the same origin as they, "Welcome, Raven." He says, in a gruff, deep voice, "And your remarkable Second - welcome also, Mr Rich. I am honoured to invite you into my humble abode."

I think he is being facetious about his surroundings.

In keeping with the standard of the accommodation, the supper we are served is magnificent in both size and quality. While he is affable, Wolf is also very businesslike, and our discussions are already upon the matter in hand, "Most of the representatives have arrived, but there are a few stragglers. The delegation from Luzern arrived yesterday - two men of the Staufer family who were, until a few months past, friendly and open to discussion on all matters of trade and government. I saw them as they presented themselves at the Stadthaus - and their expressions were remarkably unfriendly and aloof."

"Was there any hint of ichor about them?" Cromwell asks.

"I could not get close enough to determine, I fear. My sensitivity to ichor is not as strong as most - though I am given to understand that yours is quite legendary. If anyone can detect it, Raven, you can."

"I shall do what I can, Wolf." He agrees, and our conversation moves on to other matters.

Once again, a letter from Cecil is awaiting me, which encloses a short note from Agnes, who is now writing them herself. Her script is still undisciplined, but it is improving - and the fact that she is no longer obliged to dictate to her sister enables her to write more openly about her hopes for my safety in the light of our mission. Being in a place where I can do so, I set myself to penning a response immediately, telling her of our journey from Basel, and how different the countryside is in comparison to England. I am, I fear, nervous about tomorrow - and I suspect that my sword is making me so. There is instability here, and an air of nervous tension that pervades the very streets themselves. Rumours are circulating, and those who are used to years of peace and prosperity are fearful that it shall all come tumbling down before the year is out. Thus we must be ready to do what we can to prevent it.

* * *

We emerge the following morning dressed more according to our supposed diplomatic status, and Cromwell is wearing something akin to his former chain of office. I am pretending to clerk for him again, so I carry our papers in a satchel over my shoulder, and the chain that I wear is far less ostentatious than the one I wore as the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal.

I am well aware that our reputations here are largely non-existent, for we were known primarily in the English Court, and those of France, Spain and the Empire - for our doings and policies would have been reported to the various Kings and governments who dealt with King Henry, and then with Queen Jane. Here, however, it seems that we have no importance - and nor does England, for the Clerk who looks at our credentials seems monumentally disinterested in two senior politicians from that small island that sits so aloof from the shores of France.

As Zurich holds the chair of the Tagsatzung, the language spoken here is the German tongue; a language with which I am painfully unfamiliar, but one that Cromwell speaks as fluently as he does Flemish, French and Spanish. He converses politely with the Clerk, but it is clear to us both that we are viewed with a combination of disinterest - or active hostility in some cases, judging by the looks on some faces as we are observed by the gathering delegates. Rather than being invited to meet the representatives, we are instead sent to the side of the room to observe. Seated at a small table, papers, ink pot and quill to hand, Wolf looks at us, most bemused by our treatment. Regardless of the opinion of some of the importance of England as a trading nation, our stock is growing, and it is expected that representatives of the King and Queen Regent would be treated with far greater courtesy.

Once again, I feel a sense of deep discomfort that I know is being sent to me by my sword. There is great discord in this gathering - and all of it seems to stem from the two men dressed in black, whose entourage of stewards bear the arms of Luzern: azure and argent party per pale - azure to dexter, argent to sinister. It seems to me that their very presence inspires enmity - for all to whom they speak seem quite affable beforehand, but far from it afterwards. Indeed, the more time that they spend here, the worse it seems to be - and even we are not immune from the hostile glares that are being dealt out to all and sundry.

I am utterly unable to understand proceedings as the meeting begins - and thus I must rely upon Cromwell to translate for me - but his expression is one of absolute disbelief, "God above, this is an angry crew indeed, Richie," He whispers to me, "But all seems to stem solely from the two men of the Stauffer family; they seem most belligerent - and much of their discourse consists of arguments that they fling at the Chair."

While I cannot understand a word of what is being said, the word 'Zwingli' comes up several times, and Cromwell begins to see the difficulty, "Much of the anger is along religious lines." He says, very quietly, "As this man Zwingli was active in Zurich, his reforms have been far more actively embraced than in Luzern - and the number of Cantons which have also embraced reform is greater than those which have not. Luzern being at the forefront of those who remain Catholic. But that is not the main focus - it is all about money. Luzern is the centre of the Mercenary system - and the other Cantons wish to end the trade."

Even with this to enlighten me, I am at a loss to follow the ongoing arguments - but even in my ignorance of the words, I cannot fail to miss the anger behind them, or the dreadful sense of growing tension that is palpable in the room, as well as increasing my sense of unnerved fear. Sooner or later, something shall explode - and, of course, it does. The elder representative of Luzern stands up and delivers a comment that can only be considered to be deeply insulting, judging by the manner in which others start in shock, or also rise to their feet.

His expression enraged, the man from Zurich who is presiding over the meeting rises to his feet, and makes a solemn pronouncement. Beside me, Cromwell sighs, "We are too late."

"In what way?" I ask, bemused.

"Zurich has just declared war upon Luzern - and is even now calling upon existing treaties and pacts to gather the Cantons who are with them; and, judging by the expression upon the face of the man from Luzern, that is exactly in accordance with their design. They must have access to forces that are greater than the mustered armed men of the other Cantons."

"Demonic forces?" I ask quietly.

"There is but one way to be sure."

The meeting is dissolving into confusion, as those who presumably are honour bound to aid Zurich are gathering around the Chair, while the men from Luzern wait to see if any of those who are not shall side with them. Those who have gathered to watch are departing in haste, for it is clear that there shall be worse to come. Feigning a similar desire to flee, Cromwell is soon on his feet, and accidentally jostles one of the pair of delegates. Such is the response to this, that I am quite convinced for a moment that he shall be struck - but instead he is merely cursed at, and we hurry away with the others who came to observe what should have been a peaceable meeting with little to discuss.

"Well?" I ask, as soon as we are safely behind closed doors in the Dovecote, Wolf having granted me a key.

"Ichor." He says, tiredly, "They reeked of it - and thus we know that the incursion is indeed demonic."

"What shall we do? Wait to see what they do next?"

He nods, "Then we shall follow them and see what demon they reveal to us."

"And, presumably neutralise it." I finish.

"A diplomatic way of saying 'kill', but yes. That is what we shall do." Cromwell agrees, "And so to the hunt again, Richie. Are you ready?"

I nod, with a cheerfulness that surprises even me. "Always."

* * *

When he returns to the house, Wolf's expression is most concerned, "Matters are worsening by the minute, Raven," he says, "The Delegates from Luzern have departed, leaving dire threats of domination over the Confederacy, for they have access to the most, and best trained, troops. I cannot believe that they believe they could overthrow the governments of all the other Cantons - for they could not. All that they are doing is throwing our country into disarray and granting an array of Kings the temptation to invade and overrule us all."

"Which would thus throw all of Europe into equal disarray as Kings are obliged to decide whether to ally with the threatened Cantons to support their fight against invasion, or to battle for a piece of their own." I add. God, we have tried so hard to bring about a universal peace in Europe - what shall her Majesty do? Whatever option leads to the least bloodshed, I am sure; but how much power shall she, and the King, have to hold back belligerent lords on her Council?

"There is a residue of ichor about the two men of Luzern." Cromwell confirms with a sigh. Only those Silver Swords with the most intense response to the reek would be able to detect it - and of course Wolf has already admitted that he does not have that degree of sensitivity. His expression is one of dismay, "God, if I had been able to detect it, then we would not be in this position." He sighs, sadly.

"Barely any of us do, Wolf." Cromwell says, "I am in the minority - not you. Do not feel guilt for something for which you are not to blame."

"Perhaps - but if I could not prevent this outcome, then I shall do what I can to ensure that it goes no further." He says, firmly, and I am glad that he is not as wedded to self-recrimination as I seem to be.

"When the representatives of House Staufer depart, we shall follow them, Wolf. You must do what you can to bring together those Cantons who are uncertain of their loyalties. Your knowledge of the delegations is invaluable to aid in that - for you know who to approach and how to do so."

Wolf nods, "I think that the Oligarchs of Luzern overestimate the degree of resistance to their determination, for no man in the other Cantons would even consider allowing themselves to be ruled from afar. We have lived this way for too long - though the lack of an overarching treaty has always held us at risk of such a situation as this. The degree of troops that can be called together collectively shall dwarf that of the mercenaries that can be gathered - even if those troops would entirely lack the skill and battle-hardened nature of a mercenary. By sheer numbers, the other Cantons would prevail. But the degree of chaos as we dissolve into a dreadful civil war would be ideal to bring about invasion - whether it be by the Emperor or by demon-kind."

"Then we shall find the demon behind this bellicosity, and destroy it."

"Assuredly. If you and Mr Rich are to do so, then I have no fear that we shall fail." Wolf looks almost relieved.

I wish I could be so.

I am in a poor frame of mind this morning - for my sleep was disturbed by a most horrific vision of fire, torment and suffering. I could see only flames before me, and feel only helplessness and terror. I have no understanding of the portent - but it could only mean what is to happen if we fail in our endeavour, for there was a sense of a demon close by, and there are certainly demons of fire who would be more than pleased to enter our world and turn it into a nightmare of flame unfit for any but demon-kind. Would humans even survive? Given the degree of torment and slavery that would await such survivors, I rather hope not.

"Are you well, Richie?" I am not surprised that Cromwell has noticed, despite my attempts to conceal my temper.

"I am fearful of what might come about should we fail, Tom." I admit, as I tighten the girth of the saddle about Urban's belly, "I was shown a horrible vision of fire in my sleep." My voice falters, and suddenly I feel a sense of horrible fear - for I dread being burned alive above all other things, thanks to that horrible time in the gibbet next to a bonfire. God above, what if we are truly facing a demon of fire? What if I shall burn alive. God help me, no…

Cromwell's hand is upon my shoulder, "It is a warning against failure, is it not? Then we shall not fail."

"We shall not fail." I repeat, with far less assurance. How many times have I failed in my endeavours? God, I dread to imagine.

One of Wolf's spies reports that the delegation has departed to Luzern, but there is word of an overnight stop at a town called Sempach, and thus we shall go there, too. As we know the destination, there is no reason for us to follow - and, as it appears that the convoy shall travel at the pace of the ox-cart carrying the baggage, we can also move much more quickly. We have been given advice on the best route to take - for the Confederacy is as efficient in terms of the creation of good roads as Cromwell has battled for England to be. There are even crude signposts where the roads cross, which is of great assistance to us, as I have not the first idea how to navigate, though Cromwell carries a compass, so we have at least a reasonable idea of our direction.

"It should take us barely half a day to get there, Richie." Cromwell advises, though that is dependent upon how our horses approach the route, as we have a number of steep climbs ahead of us. "The ox-cart shall be far slower, so it shall take them most of the day to make the same journey."

"Which explains the reason for the overnight stop?" I ask.

"Indeed so, though it is not that much further to Luzern from there - but sometimes it is wiser to stop than to continue. The nights are drawing in now, and moving an ox-cart in the dark is always a risky enterprise."

I should be enjoying this ride, for we travel through magnificent countryside, thick with forests and the view of distant mountains now and again as we emerge at the top of hills, or into large clearings. I find, however, that my contentment is ever-interrupted by that constant sense of fear, that is also tinged with a sense of helplessness and confusion. I cannot understand it - why is this the case? There is also distrust - and I wonder as I travel whether that is the state of mind in a man faced with battle against his own countrymen. While my link with Shadowsight is much more controlled these days, I still find there are times when I cannot understand what my sword is trying to tell me.

The sun is high, though the air is rather colder now, as autumn is becoming more established. Where the trees are wont to do so, the leaves are now a wonderful rich gold and red, though many trees appear to be pines or firs, and thus remain green. The farms are neat and well tended, many seem to have at least one goat wandering around their yards, and the meal that we obtain from a small place that seems far from anywhere consists of a delicious rye bread upon which is set slices of cheese made from the milk of the goats, upon which is draped fronds of some herb that tastes of fennel. The rough, red wine that is served with it is also grown nearby, and serves well to compliment the delicacy of the cheese. For that brief time, I find myself able to forget my fears, and instead sit in a splendid spot where the warmth of the sun is trapped by a corner of the farmhouse and a barn. The hillsides are stretched out before us, and I am quite foolishly happy. This is truly magnificent - and I spent all of my life in cities.

"I wish I could have lived like this." I say, rather wistfully.

"Do not be fooled, Richie." Cromwell smiles at me, "The lack of political play would have left you bored beyond reason - and this idyll is tempered by a great deal of hard labour; but that would be helpful, for you would be both too overburdened and too tired to miss it."

"Then I shall sit and enjoy the fantasy."

"There is no harm in that. For I think I am doing the same as you." He says, stretching out his legs and sitting back against the wall with look of real contentment. I suspect that I am not alone in my reluctance to mount up and continue our journey.

The town of Sempach sits alongside a wonderfully blue lake, and again I am quite delighted at how fine it looks - until we are in amidst the houses and find that it is as smoky, dark and murky as any English town, albeit with tall, well plastered buildings upon which scenes are painted. Even if people still empty their chamber pots out of the windows, they seem to have a degree of civic pride in their houses.

As the delegation from Luzern shall stay overnight, we take rooms in a large inn before emerging in the early evening ostensibly to walk to the Lake, but primarily to see where the convoy shall stop. We act as though we are prosperous merchants making our way to Luzern to trade, and none have questioned us over the matter - and the innkeeper assumes that we are also intending to sup elsewhere, for he has advised us that there is an excellent inn alongside the lake that serves fish caught in its waters. The quality of his rooms, it appears, is not matched by the quality of his cook.

Neither of us is armed with our swords, and I have not even brought my poniards; for, if we are confronted with a demon, I can simply call my sword to me. No one is armed in these streets, for there is a remarkably effective Watch that patrols the town and ensures the peace. I wish that we could be so safe in London.

It does not take us long to reach the lake, and there are a number of establishments here that seem to exist to serve food, from which the most enticing aromas emerge. The impression I gain is that this place is a gathering spot for wealthy people who wish to spend time alongside this wonderful body of water. I wish I could have done so - for the river Thames was far too full of revolting effluvium to be so pleasant a place to view.

"That looks a likely place." Cromwell advises, pointing to a large construction on a small promontory a short distance from the town. We have seen several such castles on our journeys - and they have a remarkable look that is quite unlike those that stand in England. That one is surrounded by a high, circular wall; the keep within spiked with turrets that look rather pretty - as though the place was designed to be lived in, rather than to be defensive. I cannot see how such delicate towers could withstand the bombardment of a good mortar or two.

If we knew the Arms of House Staufer, of course, it would be a simple matter to identify the place, for several colours are flying from a scattering of the turrets. One, however, shows an arms of gules a bendlet or with two lions or passant, which I am sure that I saw amidst a list of heraldic arms on display back in Baden, though I cannot recall now to which family it applied - and I must think hard to force something back into my head.

"Kyburg!" I say, suddenly. A name was written under each and every escutcheon - but I noted it because I found the name so strange. God, I have not managed such a stupidly intense feat of memory since I remembered the references to Blue and Red Fire in the Papal Catalogue back in my library.

The family of Kyburg is one of the oligarchs of Luzern - and why would they not offer their home to their Staufer allies in such an enterprise as the conquest of all of the Confederacy? Without hesitation, we head away from the lakeside and make our way to a suitable vantage point alongside the road that shall conceal us, but also give us unhindered sight of the main gatehouse. We are surrounded by a large number of iron churns for milk, which stand outside the house of a cheesemaker, so we must remain very, very still. As this is one of Cromwell's great talents, my concern is that I do not move too much and disturb the churns about us.

We do not have to wait long, as, to my relief, my guess has proved correct, and the two delegates of House Staufer, along with their stewards and baggage train, make their way down the street towards that gatehouse. If they are there, then perhaps we might be able to slip inside - and even overhear…

No. That would be madness - in a place such as this, where there are so many who know each other by sight, we would be seen and stopped at once. Our mission is to observe - and that is what is most important. That they are here is enough - we shall advise the spies and they can infiltrate the castle.

As the gates open, I look up to see that there is someone on the wall-walk of the outer curtain, watching the activity below. Even as I look at it, I feel almost waves of anger, discord and belligerence that rise from it like a haze. It is a demon - of that I am quite convinced, and I turn to Cromwell, who has also seen it - but his reaction is unlike any I have ever seen before, as he has gone horribly white, "Demon," he whispers, weakly, his hands rising to his head, "God have mercy, I have never known the like…"

That is no surprise - for if he was able to detect ichor on the delegation despite their time away from the source, it must be strong - but is it possible that this demon could be stronger than Lamashtu? Surely not…

No - it is the objective of that demon that is causing this, for it revels in discord and argument - but there seems to be something else: a skill to see into the minds of men…

Then its head turns; Christ above, it knows we are here… _it knows…_

To my surprise, however, while I am fearful, it is nothing compared to Cromwell, who groans aloud and then sways. To my horror, he then falls to the ground in a faint, causing the churns to tumble about and over him with a shocking clattering that turns all heads towards our hiding place.

In seconds, the stewards are rushing towards me - and I rise to my feet. For a moment, I am tempted to call my sword, but it would serve me little, and cause the weapon to be taken from me, and thus I stand helplessly as they approach. At least Cromwell is hidden, a combination of darkness and fallen churns concealing him, while I appear to be alone. If I am fortunate, they shall assume that I have come on my own and intend to report back to another after they have entered the castle - and thus Cromwell shall be safe from them, and can come to my aid.

One of the men turns back and calls something in a language that I cannot fathom, but as they do not search the spot where I am concealed, I can only assume that he has reported that I am alone. That I am then pulled away from the spot, and no one returns to it, suggests that his words have been believed.

I am pulled to the front of the convoy, where the two men are still aboard their horses and look at me with frightening hostility. One of them addresses me, but I cannot understand him, and stare at him rather helplessly. I am English, I speak only a degree of French - but this language is a mystery to me.

They confer amongst themselves for a moment, and seem to come to an agreement. Issuing an order, the two turn and urge their horses on, while the Stewards that hold me force me forward in their wake. If I am hoping to be taken into the Castle apartments, then I am wrong. Instead, they take me off towards an older part of the fortress, and I am shut up in a dungeon.

God help me, I am a prisoner.


	32. Luzern

**A/N:** A minor warning - we are about to take a sharp lurch into hurt/comfort territory...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

 _Luzern_

I am seated in a carriage, which bumps painfully against every rut in the road, and I feel quite sick - not so much with fear as with disorientation, for I am blindfolded, and my hands are bound behind my back. That they do not want me to see where I am going suggests that they think that I must be able to tell people where I am by some means that is otherworldly. How little they know - even if I _could_ see, I would not have the first idea where I am, and thus could not tell anyone even if I knew.

Oh, I am afraid, too. Very afraid - but far less than I might have been, for I know that, when Cromwell awakens, he shall surmise what has happened, and shall mobilise the Order to seek me out. Even if I were not the Second to the Raven, he would do it, for our friendship is deep, and I have no doubt that I would be as eager as he to effect a rescue if our positions were reversed.

There are voices around me, but I cannot understand them, so I do not pay much attention. The voices all sound human, and I think it likely that they are either men set to guard me, or perhaps even the two delegates themselves. I have no means to know - but I do know that we are almost certainly going to Luzern, or presumably some palace or castle nearby.

I hear the rumble of wheels travelling over wood, and then we are on stone flags, whereupon the carriage pulls up, and I am dragged from it into the open air. The light coming in under the blindfold suggests daylight, but that is all that I can fathom.

I am held firmly, but those who do so are trembling, and I realise that the demon that we saw last night is also here, though its voice sounds very strange - high pitched, almost like the voice of a girl. Again, I do not understand its words - but it is asking a question, I think. Judging by the answer that is given in fearful tones, I think it does not like the what it hears, for its voice rises, and the two men hold me tremble all the more.

Then I flinch at the sensation of a hand upon my face, "He is not here, then." That voice is now speaking to me - for it speaks English with the same ease as a Silver Sword would. I do not need to ask who he means, of course, "And I thought the two of you inseparable."

"He trusts me to act alone." I lie, quietly, and force myself to think that. I am quite convinced that the creature can see inside my head.

"You are lying." The voice is not angry, merely observational, "I can see the truth in your mind. He was with you - but my slaves did not find him."

"Slaves?" Of course. They have consorted with a demon, and found nothing but enslavement in return. Just as so many others have before them.

"What else would they be?" the voice asks, indifferently, "But no matter. I have you - and you are his weakness. He loves you, and shall come for you regardless of any argument to the contrary." He turns, and snaps an order to the men who hold me; and I am hustled away.

I am taken down a flight of steps, and along a dank, damp corridor towards an equally cold and damp room that smells of effluent and mildew, and I know it is a dungeon again. My bonds are removed, but not the blindfold, and then their hands are upon my garments, unfastening buttons and lacings. God above, what for? Oh God, what for?

If I expected molestation, I am wrong, thank Christ; but I am bared entirely, and a rough smock is set over my head, obliging me to push my arms through the sleeves. Then I am forced forward, and seated in a wooden chair, my arms pinioned, and my ankles also. But still they do not remove the blindfold, and now the fear is growing more and more, for if I cannot see, then how can I know what is to happen to me?

I am tempted to call my sword, until I remember that my hands are bound to the arms of the chair in which I have been seated, and I cannot see to carve my way out of my bonds as Cromwell did with one of the sharp scales from Lamashtu's shift. Instead, I sit in silence, not knowing what to do, and wishing that I was not alone - though I am grateful that Cromwell is not present. But then, had he not fainted, then I think it highly unlikely that I would be here at all.

It is impossible to know how long I am held in that cell, for I cannot see. It may be no more than an hour, or it could be as many as three or more. I might even have slept - but I cannot know with any certainty. I have been left unmolested, but I have no doubt that my situation shall not remain so for long. Oddly, my primary concern is that I have not been struck upon the head, and thus do not have to contend with the aftereffects of that.

After a while, the door opens, and I am unfastened from the chair, but only as they have brought the means for me to relieve myself, which is a deeply humiliating experience as I am almost certainly being watched, even if I cannot see it. I am not, however given anything to eat, or to drink, but instead held firmly as someone stands before me and I am addressed in that same language that I still cannot understand.

The owner of that voice seems utterly unconcerned that I cannot understand him, but instead grows angry as I do not answer his questions. His voice rises to a shout, as he repeats the same questions over and over again - as though he imagines that increased volume shall aid my comprehension. And then he slaps me across the face with astonishing violence; then shouts something else.

To my horror, I am turned about and forced over the chair, while the smock is raised to my shoulders. I cannot see, and thus I have no inkling of what he intends to do, until I am suddenly struck across the back with something that cuts into my flesh, and then again, and again. Each cut is agony, and I cannot keep back a scream in response. Blood is trickling in rivulets over me, and I feel as though I might faint from the pain. Even as I am flogged, the man screams at me, making demands that I cannot understand, and I cry back at him that I do not understand what he wants from me, for I cannot fathom his questions - but my cries are now begging, for the pain is more than I can endure.

Just as I think I cannot remain conscious any longer, the door opens with such violence that I think that Cromwell has come to my aid - but the voice that I hear is not the one that I want to hear more than any other. No, it is that strange high voice of the demon; and all who hold and torment me are suddenly ripped away. I hear them all hit the walls of the cell with horrible, sickening thuds.

"Forgive my servants." The voice says, softly, "They are savages who know no better. I can assure you that I shall not subject you to such brutality." As it speaks, a cold fingertip traces over the cuts across my back, erasing the pain. But I am not to be freed, it seems, for instead, the smock is lowered over me, then I am turned and seated once more.

"I know of your connection to the blade that sees all things." It continues, "And that it shall hear your call - so from this moment, you shall say nothing more." The cold fingertip presses against my throat, and suddenly no sound will emerge from my mouth.

If nothing had struck me with fear before, that is no longer the case, and I am terrified, for I cannot speak…

"There is no need to use your voice, Second. I can enter your mind without effort, and your voice still lives on within your head. I am Leraje, and I believe I owe you a great debt of gratitude, for your removal of Eligos granted me the freedom to take that which I desired from the beginning. To create a stronghold for demon-kind in the human world. Lamashtu was too strong, and thus all of creation rose against her - while Eligos looked to a place that knew of the danger and was prepared to meet it. I, however, knew better. But I was overruled, so instead I am able now to take my place at the forefront of all. All that stands against me is the Raven and all those who shall fight with him - and it is for you to tell me who they are, and what it is about them that makes them strong."

I want to speak - I want to tell him that he is wasting his time, for all I know is that the Order is based in Milan. I know nothing more than that - why it is that they can detect ichor, how they do it or how they become Silver Swords other than the most simple of information. If once I might have ever felt resentment - quickly suppressed - that I knew so little, now I am deeply grateful, for what I do not know, I cannot tell.

The cold fingertips trace over my jaw, the chill not kept from my skin by my beard, "If you will not talk to me, then I have many who stand with me who shall be most pleased to speak to you. _Most_ pleased." And then he removes the cloth that binds my eyes.

I thought that I should see a cell - but I do not. Instead, I am in a rather pleasant looking room that I distinctly recall being within the Palace of Whitehall. I am still seated in the chair, still strapped to it, and I am still dressed in the rough smock - but the man opposite is not…oh dear God…the man opposite me is dead. Isn't he?

His expression cold, his eyes like gimlets, the late Sir Thomas More watches me a moment, as though he does not see the smock, or the bonds, "Welcome, Sir Richard."

God, even his voice is chill, but chill with a hatred that I never heard him express in life, "Welcome to my personal hell. Thanks to you."

But he is living, is he not? Or, if he is not, he died for his faith - so how can he be in hell? No, this is not right…

"I am condemned to these four walls, Sir Richard - thanks to my anger at your duplicity. And if I am to be freed, then you must answer my questions."

"I do not understand." How strange, I have my voice again, "How can you be in this place? Your death was…"

"My _death_ was brutal, bloody and utterly at your hands, Richard Rich." He snaps back, "I was interested only in keeping his Majesty within the true faith."

"You know he would not have accepted the ascendancy of the Pope over him, Sir Thomas. He would accept no human authority higher than his own - not if that authority went against his personal will. Even if it had not been over the marriage of Anne Boleyn, it would have happened eventually."

"Thanks to Cromwell, of course, it happened sooner, rather than later." He growls, his voice sounding horrible, as though his throat is full of phlegm. But then I see it - a thin and horrible line is tracing across his throat, and now I begin to understand what is meant by Hell.

"Each day, Rich." He whispers, viciously, "Each day I wake and sit at this very desk, and each day, my throat is severed and my head falls from my neck. You will end it for me."

"How? I cannot undo that which was done."

"Then tell me what you know. Tell me of the men in Milan who fight demons."

"I cannot, Sir Thomas."

He rises from his chair, "You can. You know you can - and you shall. Do you know how it feels to have your head cut off?"

"No." I admit.

"I shall tell you. It is pain, Mr Rich. Pain and crushing of bones. And your head falls to the earth. You see it happen. Did you know that? The last thing you see upon this earth is your fall to the ground. Just your head." Oh God - the blood is starting to drip from the wound across his throat… "And then there is nothing. Or so I thought - for now I am here. Brought here to await you and demand the truth from you. Believe me, I had forgiven you; but no, you are not worthy of forgiveness. But you live - you live on and each breath you take is an affront to me."

"I am truly sorry, Sir Thomas. I felt guilt even as I spoke - but I feared to lose the ascendancy that I hoped for. I am not that man now, I have found and embraced my better self."

"And what is that to me? In what way does that affect my death?"

I cannot answer that.

"Tell me what I wish to know, and all shall be mended, Mr Rich." More stands up and approaches me, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

"I cannot tell you that which I do not know, Sir Thomas."

"Tell me." He insists, "Your duplicity led me to this hell; do not force me to remain here because you will not save me."

And then his face is in mine, and I stare helplessly at him, "If you do not aid me, then I shall never leave you - I shall drive you mad, Rich. And then what use shall you be?"

"You ask the impossible of me, Sir Thomas. I cannot tell you that which I do not know." I am confused, for it seems to me that I have always been here, and that I am back at Whitehall - as though I never left. And yet, it makes no sense - for I know that I am not. Am I?

More is looking at me again - and I want to help him, truly I do - but I cannot, for I have nothing to give that shall aid him. He wants me to talk of the Order, but I know nothing more than any other Second does. I know not who the men of the Order are, or where in Milan they reside.

But then, in an instant, he is gone, and so is the chamber. I am in a cell once more - but not the one that I left, I think. No it is not - but I know it. I know this place…I know it…

He is there, pinioned and desperate - poor Mark Smeaton. A man whose only fault was to not be a gentleman, and thus open to be put to torture for the information we wanted. He is looking at me, as though I stand over him, and he seems not to see that I still wear that rough smock, and look as much a prisoner as he does. "Tell them, my Lord - I beg you, tell them!"

I stare at him, tell them what? It is not I who is being interrogated.

"Please!" he cries, pitifully, "If you do not, then I shall be torn limb from limb!"

Cromwell turns to me, his expression absolutely implacable, "You heard him, Sir Richard. Tell me all that you know of the Order, or I shall oblige him."

No - he cannot be here, he cannot… "Do not ask it of me, Thomas, I beg you."

His expression becomes deadly, "It is not for you to speak to me so. You know my rank - do not undermine it." His voice is unpleasant, almost cruel - this is not the Thomas Cromwell that I know…but it was. It was then, and I feared it. I feared him.

"Forgive me, My Lord." I bow my head in contrition, and his face changes, looking mollified at my words.

"Tell me of the Order, Sir Richard." He says, calmly, "Spare this man."

"I cannot tell you that which I do not know, my Lord - and you know it already, so why would you ask that information of me?"

His eyes harden, "Know that this is your doing." With a gesture, he turns away from the rack, and the men operating it begin to turn the wheels again. Beneath me, Smeaton screams, and screams, and then his arms and legs dislocate - but still it does not stop. And then…and then…his arms and legs are torn off entirely, but still he screams even as his blood floods across the rack. I want to run, but I cannot move.

I want to scream at them to stop this - to stop tormenting a man who is not to blame for any crime, but now my voice will not function, and I cannot prevent the onward destruction of that body. He should be dead - he should be…but he screams and screams, but then I think that it is me. I am screaming…my arms and legs are gone…it is me…it is me…oh Christ…

And then nothing.

* * *

When I am next aware, I am standing in the midst of a large space, and I can see crowds of people all around me. Again, they seem not to see that I look so disreputable, but instead concentrate upon that platform. No, it is a scaffold. We are in the precincts of the Tower - but how is it that there are so many people? There were not this many when she died…

She…

Anne Boleyn.

And there she is - walking towards the scaffold with calm, measured steps that speak volumes of her true courage. She is innocent, and she knows it - but still she accepts her fate and does not look around in hopes of a reprieve from a King who has already forgotten her and departed to spend time with the woman who shall replace her.

Somehow, I know not how, I am now standing at the front of the crowd, and her eyes are upon me, as she addresses the throng, "I have come here to die." She begins, "But at the behest of a man who will not speak the truth! He stands before me and even now knows that his mere words shall secure my freedom to live and to grant the King the son he desires, for I shall do so! The next child from my womb shall be a boy, and the next, and the next! But they shall not now be born, for I am dead!

There is hostility now all about me, and someone turns to me, "Tell us." He says, coldly, and then another, and another. Again, they want to know about the Order - and that knowledge shall save an innocent woman from an unwarranted death. I want to tell them that I cannot answer the questions they ask - for I do not have the knowledge they demand; but my voice will not work. Is this real? Is this happening - or am I still within that cell? I cannot say…what is happening to me?

But no - it is too late, and she drops to her knees, while the executioner reaches for his sword, "Forgive me great lady," he says, in a high, almost female, voice, "it is his failure to save you that has led to this."

"Then I shall curse him and haunt him for all time." She answers, calmly, "Be about your work."

The blade swings, and severs her neck - but her head does not fall - instead it remains where it is, and she rises, "Thank you."

"Are you mad yet?" a man asks me, and I turn to him, bemused, "I am. It is a most enjoyable state - I promise you."

No - I do not want to be mad. I am not mad, after all. I am a Second, and I have seen worse than this…

"What is a Second?" Anne is beside me now, her head precariously balanced upon her neck, "I think you are making up stories to entertain yourself. Tell me what a Second is."

"I…" suddenly, I seem not to remember.

"Then you are not a Second." She says, boredly. 'No wonder he will not come for you - for what use are you to the Raven?"

"What?"

Then she begins to laugh - a hideous, guttural sound that is thick with the blood that has flooded into her throat from her severed neck, and I attempt to flee. But I am still pinioned in the chair, and thus I cannot. Even as I attempt to plead with her to cease that dreadful sound, I find that my voice is lost to me once more, and I can do nothing to escape. Nothing…

* * *

I cannot begin to guess at the length of time over which I am held - for each day merges into another as I cannot see any daylight in the cell: always the same - always confronted with faces from the past, be they those who were condemned thanks to my actions, or those who we could not save when I stood at the side of the Raven. But the questions never change - what is the Order? Where is it in Milan? Why is it that some can sense ichor, and how are they found? They are questions that I cannot easily answer, for I have no answers other than that which is the most simple knowledge. Cromwell never told me the greatest secrets, for it was not my place to know, even if I was the greatest of Seconds…which it seems now that I am not. Not if my tormentors are to be believed. It would seem then, that I am indeed nothing - for Cromwell does not know where I am, and I have no means to tell him. I cannot call my sword - would it even hear me now? I cannot even begin to say…or even to think…it is as though my mind is coming apart…

Dreams come to me, I think; dreams of the life I once led, and the family that I once loved - now lost to me forever. I do not dare to think too much upon them, for the memories cause me the greatest pain. I am in a foreign land, far from all that I know - there is no one other than Cromwell who knows of my plight, and he has not come for me. When I was held in a cellar by a crazed ambassador, I could call for aid - but no longer, for there was someone to whom I could call…but I cannot remember their name…

No one is coming. No one. The smock that is all that covers me is becoming stiff with sweat and dirt, the foul homespun chafing at my neck and shoulders. I know that the pain of the cuts upon my back is erased - but I can feel the sensation of the rough fabric catching upon ragged wounds that are not closed, so it seems that they remain even if the pain does not, and the drying blood seems to make the smock feel rougher still. The iron bands that secure me have rubbed my wrists and ankles to bloody rawness, and still no one comes - no one but the voices of those who accuse me and demand answers that I cannot give.

I am going to die here - alone, far from home and without any to hold my hand and comfort me in my last hours; the thought of it shrivels my soul inside, and I weep often in fear at the drifting knowledge that the end of my life is almost upon me, and it shall end cruelly, painfully and in the deepest depths of loneliness. I want to pray - but my voice will not work. I try to form the words in my head - but they are scattered to the winds in silvery shards that seem to glisten for a moment before they die, blown away on a storm of angry invective from all who speak to me. No one is coming. No one - God…oh, God help me…help me…

If I am not tormented in my head, then I am tormented in body, for I am beaten and kicked, brutally flogged, starved and given little to drink other than foul water that makes me ill. The sound of footsteps approaching the cell fills me with near panic, for I cannot guess whether I am to be watered or tortured: praying for the former but in desperate terror of the latter. I do not know how it is that I can have any tears left in me to shed - but still I am driven to tears over and over again. And always that man with the high voice removes the pain of my wounded back, before returning me to that endless, ghastly hell where those same questions are asked. And those same answers fail to be given. I have been here forever…forever…and shall never leave alive…

Oh dear God - where is Cromwell? Why does he not come to help me? Is it because my prayers are unheard? No…no, no, no, no…not that. My Lord would not abandon me, not now that I am so utterly alone. He is near, and He hears me. He must do, or I am truly lost. Was this what it was like for Smeaton? Was it? Am I now nothing but a body to be beaten, a mind to be torn apart? No one is coming. No one. God help me…God help me…God help me…

Once again, I am weeping in anguish at the anger of Thomas More as his throat drips blood and his mouth drips foulness, for I do not aid him by telling him that which he desires to know. But now here is that man before me, his voice that high, feminine sound, "Still you say nothing…but if you will not be compelled to tell me, then I shall seek it for myself."

In an instant, my surroundings are those of the cell again - or at least I think that to be so. I cannot be certain. It feels as though I have been here forever, and that all I knew before this place is nothing more than a fleeting dream. But how long have I been in this dreadful place? I cannot say…for I have not been in this space. Or perhaps I have.

Leraje - for it must be he - steps forth, "You know it. I cannot believe he has not told you all. You know it and you shall tell me." His hands are then either side of my head, and suddenly I am in the midst of a swirling maelstrom of smoke and fog, faces all around me shouting insults and angry demands that I am a failure, a coward, a craven politician who would throw my own mother to the wolves if I could profit from it. Yes - I was that man; but not any more…I am not. Please, God - believe me that I am not…

But he is in my mind - I can feel his presence, those cold grasping fingertips tearing through my thoughts, dreams and memories like claws. All that I was - all that I am…torn and battered and mixed up so that I cannot tell now who I was, and who I am…horrors all around me - deaths that were at my hands, even by proxy. I am nothing…nothing…none care for me, none shall come to my aid - the only man who can save me is myself - but I cannot for I do not know that which I must say to do so. It has always been like this - I cannot remember any other way of existing…

"Thomas…" I speak his name, weakly, and he is there - but his eyes are not as I remember them. There is no friendship in that face, no kindness. He hates me, despises me - and I despise him, for he has the favour of the King, and I do not.

"Failure." He whispers, "You are nothing but a failure. I looked to you, and found you lacking. I should never have placed my trust in one such as you - and so I shall not again. Know that you shall not be saved - and I shall not save you."

My eyes widen in horror, for even if I despise him, I cannot accept that he would not come to my aid if I needed help - he is a Silver Sword - are they not pledged to fight demons and save those of us who are threatened by them?

My head is pounding, and suddenly I cannot tell where I am. I am at one minute within the Palace of Whitehall, then at Placentia, then at Grant's Place, then at Hampton Court - and the face that is in front of me is constantly changing from one figure to the next - and the voices are a chorus of disapproval that is tearing at my soul. It is as though all that I have ever known, all that I remember, is being ripped out of me and examined as though I were a book to be leafed through. It hurts - worse than the whip that cut my back - and I want to scream, but my voice will not work.

All is lost to me - and I cannot tell where I am, what is happening, or even who I am. My memories are all scrambled up, and nothing makes sense…nothing…

There are tears pouring from my eyes, and I would wail aloud if I could - while that ever changing face stands before me, now it is Anne Boleyn, then it is Thomas More, then it is Mark Smeaton, then another face: Wyatt - and he hates me, too…and then Cromwell, and then Anne, then King Henry, then…then…I cannot recognise them any more…

I rock back and forth in anguish, for nothing makes sense to me any longer…how long have I been here? Where am I? What am I?

Who am I?

 _Who am I_?

The face pulls away, and the owner of it looks at me with disgust, "It knows nothing. There is no point in keeping it alive."

There are others in the room, two that seem vaguely familiar, and another which is not, and they speak words that I do not understand. How is it that all understand the words of this stranger, but I cannot understand the men?

He nods, approvingly at their unintelligible words, "And so it shall be done on the morrow. He shall be led to the Kapellplatz, and there he shall die before the Church of St Peter. The stake shall be set high enough for all to see the death of a heretic in the cleansing flames. Perhaps then he shall be saved. For now, he is not."

What is a heretic? Why must a heretic die? And then something about the words reaches through my lost confusion, and I am rigid with fear, even though I cannot understand why. I am to burn - to burn alive…but why? I cannot remember…but I know that I am afraid, and I do not know what to do to escape it. I want to plead - but my voice will not work. I want to call out to someone, but I cannot remember who any more. I am in pain - I am alone, and I am utterly lost. Without hope of rescue or safety, still strapped in that horrible chair, I weep yet again in misery and fear as the assembly turn to go, abandoning me to my lonely despair.

* * *

I think I sleep, and for that I am grateful - for it is at least a brief escape from my torment. There is no one in the cell with me anymore - but nonetheless, I am at a loss to know whether I am truly here, or it is something that has been thrust into my mind to torture me yet further. Memories of a past I lived, or at least, I think I lived, flit through my head, and I try to cling to them, for they seem happy. Was there a time when I was happy? Perhaps there was - but not now. Now all I know is this chair, and this cell - and my mind is so confused and thrown about that I cannot recall ever having truly been anywhere else.

I used to believe that someone was looking for me - or perhaps that they would look for me. But that, too, is lost to me - for I cannot remember who it might have been, if it had been anyone at all, and not just some figment of my shattered imagination. Is that so because I wish it to be so? Long for it to be so? I do not know.

I close my eyes to weep again, for I am horribly afraid. Fire - I am to die by fire. Something that I am convinced I fear more than any other - but I cannot remember why. All I can remember now is that I am surrounded by dead people, people that are dead because of me. People denied God's grace, _because of me_. I am the cause of their misery. I am the reason for their purgatory. I am a cursed being and I am to blame. Perhaps I should be so punished, then - for I have done such terrible things…for they do not forgive me. Why should they?

And then there is fire - all in front of me. I have seen this before, I am sure of it - and it frightened me then, even though I did not understand the reason for it, and still I do not. Or did I imagine it? I try to shrink from it, but the cuts upon my back from the last flogging I received are still present, and I open my mouth to scream at the pain - but no sound emerges, for my voice has not returned to me. No, this is not life. Perhaps I died and this is Hell.

The thought of being in Hell is more than I can stand; but, even as I attempt to scream again, I can see something else now - something that I have not seen before. A pair of golden wings are fanning at the flames - but not to feed them, for instead they falter away, and those glistening feathers gently seem to caress my face for a brief moment. And then, a hand extends from a sleeve of black feathers - a strong, firm hand that reaches out to my open mouth and touches against my tongue - freeing my voice. For a moment, my head seems to unscramble, and I snatch at a brief flicker of memory - but then the pain of my wounds strikes at me again, and that sense is gone.

And yet - something remains. Even though I cannot feel anything other than unreasoning fear; even though I cannot remember anything other than a belief that I have always been in this place, it is as though that odd message has reached into me and left something behind that I thought lost.

For now, I feel hope.

It is slight, and faint - but somehow the belief that someone is seeking me, and shall come to me remains amidst the confusion, and I am sure that it is there. Even if everything else around me is senseless and impossible to grasp, and I am truly insane, there is that. Something to cling to when all else is lost.

That sense is still present when they come to me and free me from that vile chair. As I rise, I find that the smock I wear is repulsive with blood as well as the already present dirt and sweat that stiffened it to such roughness that merely to wear it is now painful. How long I have been here remains unknown to me - but it is long enough for me to have accumulated a considerable degree of grubbiness, it seems.

I emerge into the bright light of a cold morning, blinking painfully. I am weak, and giddy, which does not aid me in my attempts to understand my circumstances. There are walls around me, but they seem to move and weave about, and a man stands ahead of me in robes and a strange hat that has rounded points at the top. I should remember what that means - but my memories are too scrambled to know any longer.

The man in robes, and those who are dressed in fine garments, mount horses, but I am hefted onto a wooden cart, a rope now about my neck. We move in procession out of the walls, and into countryside that is gloriously green, but then, to my confused head, it seems to shift and becomes brown and dead, while fire rages all about. Fearful, I shake my head and blink a few times - and the vision is gone - but it returns now and again as we make our way alongside a wide lake that equally becomes blood red when my visions return. Why is this happening? What does it mean? God help me, I have no understanding…

The cart stops as we approach a large square - but there is no stake, and I realise that I am to walk the rest of the way. The man in robes dismounts, as do those who are well dressed. I am pulled from the cart, and made to stand behind them, while a placard is placed around my already roped neck, which must say something about me, for those who read it look at me with anger and dislike. I cannot read it, for even if I could see it, it is in that language that these people speak, rather than mine.

The journey is cold, and cheerless, for the sky above me is becoming overcast now, while the ground is chilly, as I am unshod. I have never been obliged to walk barefoot before, and each step is miserable, for the ground is uneven and thick with small stones. Someone shouts at me, but I know not what they say - though it inspires others to do the same, and soon people are shouting that word over an over again, jostling towards me and jeering, for they know my fate.

 _Ketzer!_

 _Ketzer!_

 _Ketzer!_

 _Verbrennen Sie ihn!_

They are throwing things at me now - vegetables, I think, though I do not look up, for I am seeking ahead of me to avoid stepping on stones, and to avoid their hate-filled stares. Even in the midst of my confusion, I know what lies ahead, and I am too afraid to look up, for I do not wish to see the platform upon which I shall be bound to a stake.

 _For there are things here that would send us to a scaffold, or bind us to stakes_.

The statement slips through my mind, and I attempt to grasp at it before it is gone - someone said that. Was it me? Or someone else? Why would that be so? I cannot remember…

The road is opening out now, and I look up to see that fate which I dread more than any other - for there it is. The stake to which I shall be bound. In an instant, my nerve fails me - such nerve as I have - and my legs give way beneath me. I cannot endure fire…I remember the heat of that bonfire…what bonfire? Where was there a bonfire? And the thought is gone again.

I want to plead - to beg for my life, but all I can do is stare desperately at those who pull me forth. They care nothing for my horror, and merely force me on - before shoving me up the steps to where a man in black waits to pull me to the stake and bind me to it with chains. Rope, after all, can burn through.

I am in tears now - but still no sound emerges. God help me, I do not want to die in this way - I want to plead to be saved, to be freed from this horror, but I cannot speak. None view me sufferings with sympathy - a sea of hostile faces that moves as waves do, and looks for my hideous death.

But for one - for the man in robes and the pointed hat looks at me, and addresses me in words that I can understand, though his accent is strange, "Englishman - for that is what you are. There need be no death this day. Confess to me - seek forgiveness for your heresy. I am told that you have attempted to turn the people of these lands from the True Faith, but if you speak now, and accept that you were in error, I shall grant you freedom from this death. Tell me - speak to me."

Does he not know that my voice has been taken? No - there is kindness in his expression, a desire to forgive and welcome a sinner back into the fold. His request is true. Or, at least I think it be so - for I no longer know who to trust, or who to turn to. But he is offering me that lifeline, and I long to grasp it. I do not recall adhering to any faith that is not true - and thus I am eager to tell him that I would never encourage any to abandon such a faith, for I certainly have no memory of doing so.

But I cannot speak.

Almost maddened with terror, I nod wildly, and try to force the words from my throat. But all I seem to achieve is a belief in that man that I am merely mad - and thus beyond his aid. His expression one of sadness, for I have rejected his offer, it seems, he turns and nods.

I want to scream. I want to scream…I want to…but still no sound will escape my clamped throat. I cannot take my eyes from the equally black-clad man who raises a flaming brand to the faggots of wood that lie beneath the platform upon which I stand, though I fight against the chains with what little strength I have left.

I can hear something, a clattering sound that is quite percussive, and utterly unlike the sound of flame devouring wood - is that what a bonfire of death sounds like to the condemned? I have never been obliged to stand here - though I have watched others face this fate - so I cannot be certain. But there is no smoke…no smoke…

Beyond the edge of the scaffold, the crowd is parting before a phalanx of horsemen that move into the square and drive the people back towards the other streets that come into the space. My breathing is fast, desperate - and my heart racing, so much so that I see spots floating before my eyes. If this is but another torment, then I think I shall truly go out of my mind, though I am not entirely convinced that this is not the case already. Have they come only to watch me die?

One of the men comes forth, his eyes angry, but again I do not understand what he says, for he speaks the same tongue as those around us. Behind him, four of the men on horses have banners, which have pictures on them that I am sure I have seen before - perhaps in a dream?

Someone is down amongst the gathered people, forcing his way through the throng. Grasping the flaming brand from the hand of the man in black, he flings it away, and then scrambles up the steps towards me, "Forgive my tardiness, Richie, I beg you - had I known that this was the fate that they had in mind for you, then I would have fought harder even than I did."

Do I know him? His face is familiar, a face that has flitted through my mind so many times that I should know - do I hate him? Do I love him? I cannot remember…

Forcing the other executioner to aid him, the man releases the chains that bind me, and guides me towards the edge of the scaffold with far greater gentleness than those who forced me onto it, and he speaks as he does so, "These are the leaders of Baden, Zurich, Zug and Bern - who have banded together to withdraw the declaration of war, and to petition Luzern to agree to peace. They have gathered pledges to form an army of such size that there would be no winning against it - and so they intend to bring matters to a conclusion before it is too late."

Too late for what? I should know - I am sure of it…

"They have accepted our credentials, and are honouring the requirement of Queen Jane to protect those who represent her - that is how it was possible for me to come here. The High has dispatched several of my brothers to come to your aid - and we are all here. If the four Cantons miscarry, then we at least can destroy the demon." He sounds quite strained, now, as though resisting an almost impossible urge of some kind, "His ability to inspire discord is intense - as is his effect upon the mind. Forgive me, I was not prepared for it, and thus I fainted when I should not have done, and left you helpless."

I want to answer him, to ask him who he is and why he has come to aid me - but still my tongue is held, and I cannot. Instead, I am led towards the group of horsemen, and someone sets a warm cloak about my shoulders, though that serves only to sting my wounded back, and I flinch violently from it before I accept it.

"Do not leave me here, Raven!" that dreaded high-pitched voice rises over the throng, and all are silenced by it, though the hands that grasp my shoulders struggle to hold me steady as I attempt to flee from it, "If you were sent to stop me, then I shall destroy you instead - and you shall be remembered only as the Silver Sword who died at my hands! Your Second told me nothing of you or the Order, but that was only because he could not, for you did not trust him to tell him!"

The man who called me 'Richie' turns and faces the creature that tore into my mind with such venom, his eyes angry, but his stance firm, "I trust him with my life, Demon. With my very soul - but even now, I know that I was right to remain silent - for if I had not, then would we be facing one another now? It was not mistrust that held my tongue - but knowing that, if he knew all that we are, then he would be vulnerable as I am not. I have been taught to resist torture, and more. But he has not."

"Indeed he has not, and thus I have driven him mad. He is lost to you, Raven! Lost!" The demon is laughing, and his cruel laugher grows as the man called Raven turns to look at me, his expression quite stricken, as he begins to appreciate that I do not recognise him - and, perhaps, why.

"Then I shall claim payment from you." He says, his voice throbbing with emotion, though I cannot fathom what emotion it might be, "Payment with your life, damn you!" and he draws two magnificent swords from about his waist.

I remember them - I remember, something about them. They sing, do they not? Like mine…mine sings to me. Tells me things…

 _You know all things, for you have Shadowsight_.

No - it makes no sense. It must be so - I am indeed insane. Such a pity…

The demon steps forth, shoving his way past those who were in thrall to him, snatching a great, hooked blade out of the very air as he confronts the man with the silver swords.

Silver? Are the swords silver? Why do I think that?

"He is mad, and soon you shall be dead. None shall stand in my way - I shall make this land a stronghold for demon-kind, and all shall die in fire!"

"You shall not." The man says, "I shall not permit it. If I cannot save my Second, then I shall fight you in his name, and to avenge him. You shall fall to dust as more powerful creatures than you have also done."

And then they fight - with a violence that I never thought possible; or have I seen it before? If only I could _remember_.

But yes, those swords are singing - a musical sound as they cut through the air. Their owner turns, stoops, leaps and evades every slice with that hideous hooked sword, and if he cannot evade, he parries. The demon, what was his name? Leraje, yes that was it, fights madly, but he has not the skill to match the man he faces, and the two battle back and forth as the gathered people flee in fear - though the soldiers remain, as does the man in the robes and pointed hat, who has moved up onto the scaffold to avoid the fight.

The two are fighting wildly, violently, with fists as much as blades, and each is as determined as the other to achieve their intended outcome - but then, the hooked sword flies out too far, and the man who fights the demon seems to know not to waste the chance he has been given.

One sword drives through the demon's chest, spearing him through the place where his heart would be if he had one, while the other swings back and slices neatly through the creature's neck. For a moment, Leraje stares at him in shock - but even as he does so, his body is falling to dust, and with it, all of his power…

In that instant, the agonised wail that has been building in me from the moment I thought myself truly doomed is freed, and I scream out, which equally shocks those who stand around me.

"I am a true Christian!" I am screaming at the man on the scaffold, who looks at me in astonishment, "My voice was stilled - I could not speak! I am not a heretic! I am not!"

The man in black turns to me, his eyes full of sympathy as my voice wavers in ever greater distress, "I am a true Christian, I am a good and honest Catholic, I have never spoken of reform in this land, never, never, never…spare me, I beg you spare me…" All that matters to me is not to be pulled back to that stake - to die there in agony and alone…

Then there are arms about me, and I am eased into an embrace, "Let your pain go, Richie. Let it out."

Again, I scream, and then I am sobbing. I do not know who this man is - I think I should, but I cannot remember - all that I know, all that I am, is gone, scattered as though it was a glass that someone had dropped upon a stone-flagged floor…

My legs will no longer hold me, and I sink to the ground, though still I am held and comforted with kind words that mean nothing for I do not know whether to trust the man who speaks them. For I still do not know who I am - and I remember nothing solid any more.

I am alive - but I am dead, all at once.

And I thus I am in hell.


	33. Savoy

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews - I'm glad I pitched that chapter right; it was a bit nervewracking to put that up, as it was - to be frank - one hell of a whumping. That said, I suppose there's a degree of achievement in evoking sympathy for one of the era's great villains!

Now, of course, having broken Rich into so many pieces, we have to put him back together again: a process that will take time, a nice chateau on the side of a lake, and a familiar face that they haven't seen in years...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three

 _Savoy_

I am lying down - face down upon a soft bed, my head resting upon a down-filled pillow. My back is bared, and feels afire, for the wounds are being cleaned, I think. Or at least I hope that that is the cause of the pain.

I have not yet opened my eyes, for fear that this, too, is a ghastly dream, and the fire upon my back is the fire of the stake; and that my rescue from the scaffold did not occur, but was merely a construct within my head. Darkness is safe, a retreat from the horrors that have become the sole centre of my existence, and I have no wish to let in the light; what if what I see is too dreadful to contemplate?

The bed moves, as someone sits on it alongside me, but I still will not open my eyes: I do not dare to, "It is nearly done, Richie," that voice of the man with the swords says, gently, "And then you are free to sleep as you need to. I shall be here - you shall not be left alone, and none shall come to take you from this place. We shall not depart from here without your agreement and consent."

When did I last hear a kindly voice? I cannot remember…but my closed eyes are flooding with tears, for I thought never to hear gentle words ever again. Why would I, if they only came to me in dreams and now I am awake?

"His captors have caused him great hurt, Raven." Another voice says, behind me, "Whatever you need, it shall be done - for we value him as you do."

"No." The voice says, sadly, "You cannot value him as greatly as I do." A hand rests upon my shoulder, but I flinch from it, which sets my wounded back to throbbing, and draws a weak groan from my throat.

"He has lost his trust in men." That other voice answers, "Whether he shall ever regain it…"

"Then I shall earn it back." The hand moves from my shoulder, and carefully shifts some rogue strands of hair from my forehead, "I shall earn it back." The voice says again, a mere whisper.

"The Sovereign specific would…"

"No." That voice insists, "He has suffered enough - cruel though this is, the Sovereign Specific would be all but unbearable, and I shall not cause him to distrust me even further by forcing him to endure it."

I feel most strange - a part of me desires to scream at that man to go, to leave me to my suffering; for I cannot abide to be awake, yet sleep holds terrors just as great - but equally, those same terrors cause me to want to plead with him to stay. Somehow, without my understanding how, I know in my deepest heart that this man shall protect me, even unto death. Whatever nightmares that shall come to claim me, they must pass through him first.

And I cannot even remember his name.

Or mine.

* * *

I do not know how long it is until I dare to release myself from my self-imposed blindness - but when I do, I find that I am indeed abed in a well appointed chamber with warm, dark panelling upon the walls, and a finely sculpted plaster ceiling. A fire is burning in a grate, but it is too far away from me to alarm me. I am still unclad to the waist, but a sheet covers me to keep the chill at bay, and the pain of movement is less now. I suppose I must have been bathed while I was insensible - as I can see from the state of my arms that I am no longer filthy. It is strange - now that I am free to speak, I have no idea what to say - for the questions that fill my head are so numerous that I cannot work out where to begin, and my ignorance feels much safer.

Dreams still plague me, and even wakefulness seems to be no refuge, for those fears and horrors that tormented me in my captivity strike at me if I allow my mind to rest. A woman comes into the room at regular intervals to remove the chamber pot, and to feed me hot broth that is rich with barley and fowl, a procedure that is always accompanied by kindly words in strangely accented English. Despite there being no acts of cruelty towards me, it has taken me some time to quell that horrible sense of terror at the sound of footsteps approaching the door; but even so, I remain tense and nervous until the door opens and admits her. Additional to the regular meals, a regularly-refilled covered pitcher of cool cordial in ale rests upon a table beside my bed, for me to empty into a cup as I wish to. After a long period of thirst and foul water, it is as though the nectar of the gods to me, and even though the movement hurts my back, I rise regularly to pour out more. In some ways, it is the only succour to me in my fear and confusion - trusting any who come into the chamber is impossible, for there is always that insistent dread that they shall prove to be nothing more than another torment set upon me by that demon with the high voice who called himself Leraje.

After a few more days, I find it in myself to risk emerging from the bed and exploring my surroundings. If I am a prisoner again, then perhaps there is a means of escape, and I shall finally be free of any who wish me harm - whoever they might be. I am no longer in that foul smock, but instead a long gown of linen that falls to my ankles, but there are no shoes to hand, so I remain barefoot. If I must leave so attired, then I shall. I have been held by others for too long, and I want to regain some sense of freedom - for if I do, perhaps these insistent horrors shall also depart and leave me be.

There is a flight of stairs before me, but no one stands to guard them, so I descend silently. Again, there is no one present in the hall below, but I can hear voices behind a wooden door, and I am curious to know what they say - are they planning my fate? Do I dare to find out what it might be?

"The High has asked when you plan to reach Milan, Raven."

"That, I cannot say." That voice, of the man that saved me, "Until Richard is well, I am not free to go to Milan."

"His mind has been harmed." The first voice says, "His own successor has told us of Leraje's ability to destroy a human mind - and it is clear that he has done so to your Second. It may be that he shall never recover."

"Then I shall stay with him." The voice insists, quietly, "Until I am assured that he is safe, and well, I shall not depart from him. Do not ask it of me; for if you do, I shall surrender my swords and never come to Milan."

"You are wasting your time, Eagle." A third voice says - a deep voice that I think I remember from somewhere long ago, or was it recently? "You are an itinerant, as am I. We cannot fathom the bonds between Court Silver Swords and their Seconds - for they are always close, but none have been as close as that of the Raven and his Second. Their fellow courtiers used to joke that they were David and Jonathan. Whatever you decide to do, Raven, know that I am with you. We shall find some means to aid your Second - even if it is but to find him a safe haven in which to spend the remainder of his days."

"Thank you." The man Raven says. My God - is he crying? Why? Why am I also crying? I can feel the tears upon my cheeks, and a faint sob escapes me. They know that I am damaged - and they want to mend me; but I cannot be mended. I cannot - for I no longer know what is real, and what is not…

The door opens, and the man Raven is there, looking at me as I slide to the floor in despair. My world is in pieces, but I cannot reclaim them for I know not where they are, or what would form if I could gather them together.

Again, his arms are about my shoulders, helping me to my feet, "Come, sit down, Richie - why have you come downstairs? You are still tired."

"I wanted to go." I whimper, wretchedly, "I cannot find myself, and everything is destroyed…"

"We shall go when you are ready." He says, softly, "When you are stronger. If you do not wish to go back upstairs, there is a room across the corridor that is warmed by the sun and looks out across a river that is crossed by a wooden bridge. A well built chair, some blankets, and you can rest in peace, away from the bedchamber."

I am not to be returned to the room from which I have fled, then. Perhaps I am not imprisoned, after all. Or am I? Is this just another pretence that I am not? What shall happen when I sit in that chair - will the walls melt back into that cell - and those iron bonds be fastened over my wrists again? No - no, I cannot go there…I cannot…

He tenses; does he know that I am afraid? Why I am afraid? Oh Christ, no - he can see in my head…Leraje is not dead, he is the man at my side, and the cell is nearby…

I fight against him, to escape from the man who is a demon in disguise - but rather than grasp me more tightly, he instead releases me at once and I drop back to the floor, "I am not the thing that you fear, Richie. There is no need to shrink from me."

"I do not know who to trust…I do not even know what is true or false…I cannot trust a single soul…" I am too frightened to think, and the words come from me almost unbidden in my hopeless confusion.

"Let me prove to you that I can be trusted, Richie." The Raven says, holding out his hand, "Come with me, and you shall find that I am not deceiving you when I speak of that room with sunlight and a view of a bridge."

Slowly, painfully slowly, I comply, reaching out to take that proffered hand. Equally slowly, the Raven coaxes me to stand, and I follow him to another door, which he opens to reveal a chamber as well appointed as the bedchamber. There is indeed a chair, but it is upholstered and cushioned, with a high back against which I can rest my head, and a long seat that allows me to stretch out my legs. Beyond is, as promised, a view of a wooden bridge that stretches over a river, and the room is filled with sunlight. As soon as I am seated in the chair, the man called Raven carefully drapes a felt blanket over my legs, and draws up a wooden chair to sit beside me, "If you require anything, you have but to ask. I shall leave you in peace. If you require victuals, then I shall see what is in the kitchens, and you can decide what you wish to eat."

He seems so attentive to me - but I still cannot fathom why he would be so. Is it guilt? He said that he was to blame for my captivity, but I cannot recall how it occurred - for I have always been in captivity, and any other part of my life is nothing but a dream, and a hopeless one, at that. Perhaps I should be willing to trust him, but that is more than I can do - for I have lost any sense of safety, and no longer know who shall lead me from this dreadful mire, or who shall deceive me to be engulfed in it.

Now that I am no longer in a cell, I am able to keep track of the passage of days, and I know that I have lived in this house now for over a week. My strength is returning, for now I am given wholesome victuals that fortify me, and I am dressed again in comfortable clothes. I regularly sit in that chamber and look out at that bridge: a wooden, covered walkway over the river that I am told is called the Reuss. It is a peaceful scene, and the comings and goings of folk as they cross it serves as a mild distraction from my endlessly circling thoughts, for I still do not know who to trust, and my memory will not settle. I have recalled my name, at least, so now I understand why the Raven calls me 'Richie'. And I know his name: Thomas - but I cannot remember knowing it before I was told.

They still converse about me - as though they do not realise that I overhear them, "His memory is lost, Raven. He cannot serve the Order any longer - you know that to be so. He still has no trust for you - he merely accepts you."

The man called Thomas sighs, and is silent for a while, "I cannot abandon him. Do not ask it of me."

"There is a place to which he can go, Raven." That other voice says, the one that was sympathetic to him, "The Abbey at Hautecombe - it is well situated in fine countryside, and the brothers specialise in aiding those who have been damaged in their minds. It may be that their care shall restore him, and then you can return to him and bring him to Milan - but if not, he shall be safe, well cared for and shall live out his days in comfort."

"No. That would be an abandonment. I will not do it. He is learning to trust me again, and I will not - _will_ not - betray that trust."

"Then go there with him, talk to the Brothers and see what they suggest. If nothing else, it may be that they shall have some curative that shall give him peace, and he can come to Milan where we can care for him instead."

Everyone looks up, startled, as I open the door, "Do you mean that?" I ask Thomas.

"What?"

"That you shall not abandon me."

He rises from his chair, "Yes. I mean it. I will not abandon you, Richie. I failed you horribly when I fainted and left you alone to be captured. I owe you at least the opportunity to regain some peace from the horrors that haunt you - for even if I cannot see what you see, your suffering is there for all to witness, and that is upon my account. You are as a brother to me, and I love you. I shall not leave you helpless against that which torments you. I _will_ not."

"Then take me to that Abbey. We shall leave on the morrow." I do not know why I say so - but I am convinced that, if we do not go tomorrow, then I shall never know peace again.

"Are you sure?" One of the others looks at me, surprised.

"I am sure. I have been here long enough, and I wish never to come here again."

Thomas nods, "Then we shall go."

* * *

I spend a wretched night, horrors thick in my mind as all the ghastly torments that were visited upon me seem to rise up to drag me away from what little sense of security that I have. I cannot stay here - but, God, I am afraid to leave. I am afraid to place myself in the hands of a man that I cannot remember, and I do not know whether I can even trust. But I must do something - or I shall be lost forever in the maelstrom; and all that I am shall be destroyed.

The cloak I wear is warm, as are the garments that clothe me. The horse before me seems familiar - and the man named Thomas tells me that it belongs to me, as do the items in the saddlebag, and the roll of canvas at the saddle's back. There is a sword there - which is also mine. And it seems to quiver in my hand as I grasp it - but I do not know why. Even as I replace it against the saddle, I can see that the man Thomas is looking at me almost hopefully, as though he expects something to happen - but he is most dismayed when he finds that nothing does.

I am glad to leave the city where I suffered such misery, but I am also afraid of what is to come. The Abbey to which we are bound seems both a sanctuary, and a place of incarceration, for I do not know if I am sane, or mad.

At first, the man Thomas attempts to engage me in conversation, "The destruction of the demon has had a most remarkable effect, Richie - the Archbishop of Luzern was appalled that the Oligarchs had fallen into the toils of infernal control, and has stepped forth to take control of the Government until the future governance of the Canton can be settled. He has agreed to withdraw from hostilities, and already the Tagsatzung is arranging to meet in order to establish a universal treaty to formalise the relations between the thirteen Cantons."

I do not want to know - I do not know what I want. Just peace, I think. I just want peace. Peace from the nightmares, and from the ghastly memories that will not leave me, but instead churn and taint all that was good - and what once brought me joy. Shall I ever know joy again? Perhaps not. But peace shall be sufficient if there is no joy left in this world for me.

He is looking at me, as we ride. Looking at me with worry and sadness, for he knows that I am utterly lost. My head is lowered, and I allow the horse to walk along with the other. We stop at a neat farm, but I do not look up at my surroundings, and I swallow only a few mouthfuls of the bread and cheese that is given me. The man with whom I travel is not a friend - but instead a guide, taking me away from a place of misery. Where we shall go, I no longer care, but that hope of peace is becoming ever greater. That would be all that matters to me now.

The Abbey to which we are bound is in the Duchy of Savoy - and I recall that the name is familiar, though not why. My disinterest seems to grow ever more as we ride on, and it is a thing of supreme indifference to me when we reach the town that I am told is called Annecy - where we shall spend the night.

We pause in a large market square, where people have congregated in great numbers, and the man Thomas dismounts to speak to individuals in the throng. But there are so many - so many…and they are looking at me…God no, there was another crowd like this - a crowd that wanted me dead…

"Richie!" I hear his voice as I turn the horse, and kick my heels to its flanks. Anything to escape - anything…

The horse scrambles to life under me, and we are soon away. I do not know where we are going, nor do I care. The fear of fire and a stake is such that I want only to flee from it.

It should not be a surprise that the man behind me is a better rider than I - for if I was once capable, I have forgotten it. Before long, I hear the pounding of hoofs, and he is alongside, riding his horse far harder than I am riding mine. Reaching across, he snatches at the reins and pulls up my horse along with his, and we draw to a halt. I think he is going to demand to know why I fled - but then he sees my face, and his expression changes, "What is it?"

"I thought they would pull me to a stake." I admit, my head down, "I had to run."

His hand rises from the reins and rests upon my arm, but I pull away immediately. To my surprise, I see a flash of pain in his eyes, and I wonder why. Does he care about me? How strange.

There are more hooves approaching, and we turn to see a small procession of men, who are escorting a rather richly decorated carriage. Moving our horses aside, we watch as it passes, but then it stops, the door opens and a head looks out, "My Lord Cromwell?"

I should remember that face - and that voice, but I find that the memory is lost in the midst of my confusion. Beside me, the man Thomas seems astonished, "Excellency?"

"You know that I deserve that title no longer, my Lord; I am merely Eustace Chapuys now; but I am intrigued as to why you are on this road, for while I have a reason, I cannot imagine what yours might be."

"I…" he seems unable to speak, and I realise that he is quite distressed now.

"My Lord?" the man emerges entirely from the carriage and approaches us, and then he looks at me, "Sir Richard?"

He knows me, then. To my surprise, he seems startled, and then turns to the man Thomas, "What has happened?"

"I wish that I could tell you, truly I do. But I hardly know where to begin."

The man looks at us, "Then come to my home to tell me - for the hour is growing late."

* * *

The chambers granted to me are remarkably fine - palatial, even. I have a main chamber, a bed chamber and a stool closet - which seems familiar to me, in some ways at least. Did I live like this, once? I think that I did - but the memory is lost in the disaster of confusion that seems to exist for me now.

The man Thomas says that I know this stranger Eustace Chapuys - that we were once together in the Court of Henry of England. I believe what he tells me, for he seems to think it so; but I cannot be sure that even he truly knows what is real, and what is not.

The view from my chambers looks out across a wide lake, over which mountains glower on the opposite side. Below, well tended gardens lead down to a boathouse, and I can see several small vessels that bob quietly in a stiff breeze, for the weather is growing colder now. They are down there - Thomas and the man Chapuys, talking together quietly. I do not wonder what they talk of, for I know that they are talking about me. How I know it, I cannot say with certainty; but I know that they are, for now and again, one or the other looks back to the house.

There seems to be little worthwhile reason to remain at the window, and I retire to a chair beside the fire. I think I doze a little, for it seems too short a time between my retreat to the chair and the sound of a knock upon the door, which opens at my summons to reveal Chapuys.

"May I come in?" he asks quietly.

I shrug vaguely, and point at the chair opposite.

"My Lord Cromwell tells me that you have been gravely hurt."

"So I am told. It is of no matter."

"Is it of no matter for you do not wish to cause hurt to him, or because it is too hard to speak of?" He asks, "I was once the valued counsellor to one who was lost and wished to find their way home. She did - and I would willingly give of my time and counsel to aid you, if you wish it."

"Why?" I look at him. What reason would he have to do such a thing for me?

"Come now, Mr Rich. We were adversaries once, were we not? In politics if not in other things; but there are times when we were more than civil - and I recall those conversations warmly. Much as I was determined to serve the requirements of my Master the Emperor, I recognised that my Lord Cromwell was doing the exact same thing for _his_ master - the King. When we were not adversaries, I think that we were capable of something approaching friendship. But I am not with him in any manner other than as a past acquaintance, and thus perhaps I can be viewed as a neutral party?"

Again, I shrug - for what is there in this for me other than the requirement to answer questions? The last time that happened, the pain of failure was such that men died because of me…or so I think…

He watches me awhile, and then sighs, "I think you are not ready. But no matter, for there is ample time. The winters here are cruel, and the weather closes in upon us. I am here only to inspect this estate before I return to my home in Brabant - but I shall remain here for the duration of the bad weather, and you are both welcome to do likewise."

I think that I should thank him - but the words will not come. I trust no one, and nothing - for what is real, and what is false? I have not seen the inside of that cell for so long, but still I cannot bring myself to believe that I never shall again.

I am left alone once more, and sink back into the comfortable chair, warming myself beside the fire, though I am careful to avoid getting too close. Why do I not feel safe? I should - for I am. Or, at least, I think I am. My thoughts take me round and round in circles, for I cannot remember anything well enough to hold onto it for more than a moment. I know who I am now, for I have been told so - but the knowledge remains something that I have been told, not something that is truly from my own mind. Oh God, I am so lost…

I must have slept, for the next that I know is that night has fallen, and the fire is low. Someone is knocking on the door, and that man Thomas enters, "We are due to sup, Richie. Do you wish to join us, or perhaps you would prefer some victuals brought to you?"

I shake my head, suddenly quite miserable, "Forgive me, but I am not hungry." My voice is little more than a whisper.

"Do you want me to stay?" He asks, quietly.

I nod then, and begin to cry. I have been alone for most of the day - and the very thought of spending yet more time with nothing but my horrors for company is more than I can bear.

"I wish that I could help you," he mourns, sadly, his arms about my shoulders as I sob, "God, I wish that I could - but I know not where to begin."

"I cannot remember," I whimper, "I cannot remember who I am, or what I did. None of my memories remain, they are shattered and scattered like chaff…"

"Then let me help you, Richie - whatever it is that we must do, then we shall do it."

"Please, do not lock me away in that Abbey - I thought it would give me peace, but it is naught but a prison, and I cannot abide to be imprisoned again." I have no inkling as to why I think that; but the fear is so suddenly real to me that I seek only to avoid it.

"Then you shall not be. Chapuys has given us a roof over our heads for the entirety of the winter, and thus you shall have all the time that you need to rest and recuperate. It may be that that is all that you shall need, and by the spring your memories shall be whole again."

I do not think it to be likely, but somehow his presence is sufficient to comfort me, for it brings back memories of a sort - memories of friendship. Yes - this is a man that I can trust, if only I can bring myself to do it. But still, I am not sure that I could. There is nothing to hold on to, nothing to which I can anchor myself in the storms that batter me.

He gets up, but only to look outside the door to ask that some victuals be brought upstairs to us, and before long, we are seated at the table with a turned leg of mutton between us, and some fresh baked bread. It feels familiar to be seated so - and I find that I have at least a semblance of an appetite.

Once the dishes have been cleared, however, I find that I am dreadfully tired, and thus I am left in peace to retire to bed. Now that I am alone again, I find that sense of familiarity receding once more - but for a brief time, at least, I felt vaguely contented - so perhaps there is hope for me after all.

* * *

I think that I might be dreaming, for all that surrounds me is quite verdant, and the trees are in blossom, which cannot be possible given the onset of winter. For the first time in as long as I can remember - which I know is not much - I feel safety, and even contentment akin to another time, when I sat upon a wooden bench, my back to a dark wood wall, and thought myself to be all but in heaven.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice causes me to whip round, panic stricken, but I find that the man beside me is not one of my tormentors - though I cannot place him. Why not? I am sure I know him - an imposing man in red robes, a strange little red cap upon his head…

"You can remember, you know." He says, "You just don't want to. I can appreciate that - remembering bad things is hard. It is easier to force them from your mind and pretend that you forget."

"I am not pretending." I cannot accept that - I want to remember - I _try_ to remember, but it always flees from me, as the flocks of doves used to do when I was a child…

"There - you remember something, at least."

"I should remember you."

"Of course you should. I am hard to forget." He smiles, chuckling slightly at some joke that I cannot fathom, "Come, sit with me. Time passes differently in the spiritual world - for dreams can seem to go on forever, can they not? Only for you to wake and find that a mere night has passed."

"How does that matter?"

"If we do not make use of this time, then you shall not be well enough to complete the task for which you were born. There is, if you recall, a college of Seconds that you are meant to be founding."

"I was born with a purpose?"

"Of course you were - all men are. Even if that purpose is to do something utterly innocuous that spurs someone else to do something great. Some have the mere purpose of existing and perpetuating a family line to bring forth a hero. Your task is to ensure that none are as bereft of good advice as you were when you first became the Second to the Raven." The man pauses, "He is trying to help you, you know."

"Yes, I know. He does not know how to, and I think that grieves him." I seat myself on a wooden bench, and the man in red sits beside me.

"Indeed it does. It grieves all of us who were tasked to fight with him. Even a Queen in England grieves, for it is thought that you are lost to us."

"I do not want to be - but I cannot find any way to regain what was taken from me."

He sighs, "In order to do that, you must confront that which took them from you. A demon forced his way into your mind, and violated it - and your memories scattered in order to survive. A defence mechanism, if you will. To bring them back, you must return to that moment and understand it. The visions that you saw were false, not the cell, and not the men who tormented you. But those falsehoods were told to you by your own conscience and sense of guilt. All that the demon did was open the way for you to see them."

I think upon it - perhaps that is indeed so, for I know that More was a Godly man who saw martyrdom as his final gift to his king, a sign that there was an authority higher than he. He would not have gone to his maker without having cleared his conscience, and thus he would have forgiven me. No - he _did_ forgive me - for that was one of the three acts that enabled the Gemfire to stand against Lamashtu. I just cannot accept it - for I could not be so forgiving. Regardless of his faults - for he _did_ have faults - he never gave in to hate, not even when I stood up and perjured myself. Oh, yes - there was scorn, and disappointment; but not hate. Nothing akin to the vile fury that raged against me in that chamber…

I shudder in fear at the memory, which threatens to wrench away the reasoning that has brought me to this…no. Hold onto it. _Hold on_.

There is a hand upon my shoulder, "That is a start, Richard. No more, for you cannot take on more than one such fight at a time. Remember that the vision was a lie. Thomas More forgave you before he stepped upon the scaffold, and the purgatory in which you found him could not have occurred, for he cleansed his soul through confession before he died - and, as he said, he died the King's servant - but God's first."

Slowly painfully, I raise my head, for in the midst of that remembrance, I find at least a small piece of what I recall being restored to me, and I finally recognise the man at my side: Thomas Wolsey.

I manage to smile at him - the first smile that I can remember in God knows how long, "Thank you, Eminence."

* * *

I think that they know that something has changed in me when I emerge from my chambers and come downstairs in the light of morning to break my fast. I am still uncomfortable, for there is much over which I am endlessly uncertain, but the man Thomas smiles at me, and indicates a chair for me to sit, "I have written to London, Richie - and asked Cecil to approach your daughter to send you letters. I think that you shall find that comforting. I have not said anything other that you are a little unwell and would greatly appreciate her letters. Those that have accumulated in the time between now and our departure from Baden are here." He indicates a small pile of missives.

Despite the dream I had last night, I am still unsure what to believe - what truly happened to me, and what was a lie. But I turn to him, "How long was I in captivity?"

He sighs, and looks a little pained, "I was unable to bring the accumulated governors of the Cantons to Luzern for more than four weeks. None of us could reach you - Eagle tried, but we could not infiltrate the garrison, while Wolf was obliged to slap me several times when I grew too hot tempered at how slow we were being. God, Richie, I wanted to get to you, I wanted to find you and rescue you - but it was impossible to do it quickly, or easily. I knew that you would not be treated well, for the sense of darkness in that demon Leraje was such that it toppled me, and it convinced me that the cruelty he would inflict upon you would be terrible."

"It was." I mumble.

"I beg your forgiveness," he says, almost desperately, "I cannot abide that I have been the cause of such suffering for you, and I was forced to leave you helpless for so long."

"I want to." I say, "I want to; but I cannot. It is too painful to contemplate."

The man Chapuys watches us, his eyes sad - for now that we are no longer adversaries, he seems keen to aid me. He knew the man that I was - the man I am told I used to be until I was dragged from a pile of tumbled milk churns and taken into a living hell - and now he sees what I have become.

Slowly, I rise from the table and wander across to the window. Beyond, I can see down to the lake, but that view is narrowing as a heavy snowfall begins. I know that Wolsey has spoken to me. I know that my encounter with More was a lie. But what of Smeaton? Was that also a lie? Or Anne? God - those cold claws ripping through my thoughts, through my memories…the pain of it, the sense of ghastly violation. I cannot bear to think of it - and yet Wolsey says that I must if I am ever to regain what I lost.

"Ah. Snowfall." Chapuys is beside me now, looking out of the window, "My man said it would come today - and so it has. He is remarkable with the weather - quite remarkable. I think that he reads the sky - for he says that the clouds tell him what is to come. It is but the first of much more, but it is still possible to go outside. I have horses and a sleigh - so perhaps a ride out later?"

The snow is settling already, and looks set for the day, "If the snow stops, then yes. I think I should like that."

* * *

I spend the morning reading my way through a succession of letters from the girl that is claimed to be my daughter. They are untidily written, but speak of those small things that are of such importance to a child, and ask after my health and wellbeing. Each is addressed by the name 'Poppa', a name that I find oddly comforting, and as I set one down, I reach almost eagerly for the next.

By the time the midday meal is served, the snow is thick upon the ground, as the fall has been remarkably heavy - heavier than anything I recall in England. There are signs, however, that the sky is clearing, and I am rather pleased at the thought of riding aboard a sleigh - for I have never been so fortunate as to do so. I know that Thomas is looking at me rather sadly, but in hope that my temporary escape shall be helpful to me - and I think that he is also hopeful that I shall ask him to come, too. But not now - no, I am not ready. Someone who does not know me to that same degree - someone who shall not judge me. It is not a friend that I need beside me now. It is a stranger.

"Do not be alarmed, my friend." Chapuys whispers behind me, "Time is the greatest of healers, even if he does so slowly and without cordials for the pain. In time, we shall win Richard back - but we must give him that time."

Two hours after midday, the snow stops and the sky clears to bright sunshine that slants across the countryside just above the mountains across the lake. We shall not have long, I think, but clear air, and a sense of escape from confinement is almost like an elixir to me now, and I long for nothing else.

"If you think England was cold, Mr Rich," Chapuys advises, as his manservants gather an astonishing array of furs and wools, "You have never lived in the mountains. This might seem excessive, but you shall be most grateful for it once we are underway."

He is right - the shock of the cold from my first breath in the open air is such that I almost choke, but the sleigh is before us, and two chestnut horses in harness bedecked with bells await us, "The lake is far too large for us to traverse its entire shore - but a journey to the end of my estate and back should be most enjoyable." Chapuys advises, as I set myself into a well padded seat, only for one of the grooms to set a great sheepskin over my already well wrapped legs. My host is soon seated beside me, and equally bundled, and thus we are off.

The runners travel over the snow almost silently, and the sounds of the horses hooves are deadened by the thickness of that which lies on the ground. I am advised that the man who drives the sled does not understand our speech, but nonetheless, I cannot think of anything to say.

"This must be hard for you." Chapuys prompts, after a while.

"It is." I admit, "I cannot divine what is real, and what is not - even after all this time, I am not truly convinced that all around me shall not melt away, causing me to find that I am still in that cell; for my dreams often take me there. What do you know?"

"Only what my Lord Cromwell has seen fit to tell me - which is not much. I know that you were taken, imprisoned, put to torment in some fashion, and then sent to the stake as a heretic. Only that."

I truly wish that it were 'only that'. "What do you know of demons, Sir?"

"That they are real - or at least preachers tell us that they are."

"They speak the truth. For my tormentor was a demon."

Chapuys stares at me, shocked.

"He did not harm my body - but instead struck against my mind. He showed me many things, things that seemed to make sense to me; but I am sure that at least some of them were lies. Certainly the first of them was - but the others…he wanted to know a great secret, which he thought that I guarded - but I did not. His determination to seek out that secret was such that he refused to accept my ignorance, and directed crueller torments to force that secret from me. But I could not reveal that which I did not know."

"And you did not lie?" he asks, quietly.

"I did not think to - for those who put the questions to me were faces that I knew, and it did not occur to me to tell them anything other than the truth. At least, I think it was the truth…my mind became so confused by the end of it that I am no longer entirely certain."

He has not attempted to move away from me - as I would have expected if he thought me mad. Instead, he nods, solemnly, "Demons are most pernicious, I am told - but what defence do we have against them?"

"I had none but a desperate faith in God." I admit, "And even that began to be lost to me - though I think He spoke to me before I was removed from my cell to be taken to the scaffold, for I saw a vision that gave me at least some hope that all was not lost - even if I was."

"No - you are not lost. Misplaced, perhaps, but not lost. I think that I see a detachment in you - a separation of yourself from what happened to you. I have seen it in soldiers who have witnessed slaughters; men who cannot abide the sights that were before them, and thus remove themselves from the thought of it, for fear of losing their minds if they do not do so. In time, you shall find your way back. They did - and so shall you."

I hope that to be so - but with nothing else to say, I sit back amongst the furs and allow myself to at least attempt to enjoy the return journey in the last of the fading light of day.

* * *

The snow continues to fall over the next week or so, as we draw closer to Christmastide - or so I am told, for I am still confused and fearful for much of the time. The man named Chapuys talks to me regularly, often of matters of so little consequence that I wonder why he does so. The number of letters addressed to me in that childish hand diminish in frequency, but not numbers - for the weather is making it harder for messengers to get to the Chateau in which we are so comfortably settled.

If I make any progress in reclaiming that which I have lost, it is frequently scattered once again as I dream often of being bound to a stake as fire rises around me, and my screams go unheard. Or, for variety, I am seated in that chair again, or hung up as my back is cut by the whip until I seem almost to be drowning in my own blood. Even though my surroundings in daylight are constant and safe, that helpless confusion over what is real, and what is not, seems never to diminish; and I am beginning to wonder if it shall ever go away.

The man called Thomas is often at my side, as though he knows when my pain is at its worst - but I cannot abide him to be near, for reasons I cannot fathom or explain, though the look of hurt upon his face as he retreats from me stabs me to the depths of my soul.

There is, however, one refuge from that misery, and that is the verdant meadow where the Cardinal meets with me. I am not often there, as though it is hard for him to reach me - but somehow I always feel that I have found something of myself after we have met.

"And you think that Smeaton's torment was also entirely your doing?" Wolsey asks, as we sit upon that bench in the midst of spring - barely two days from the Christmastide feast.

"Was it not? I was there - I knew that he was innocent. And I did nothing to stop it - nothing."

"Nor did Thomas." He reminds me.

"But I did not know how to!"

"Of course you did - for the reason for the incident was not the one that you have attached to it. That you did not was because you could not find it in yourself to intervene. I do not blame you for that - after all, it was Thomas who was the one who led that interrogation, not you. And you feared him then, did you not?"

I struggle to recall, but then it is there, "Yes. I did - I feared and hated him for his coldness. But he was not acting just to give the King what he desired - a pretext to remove Anne Boleyn from his presence - but also to protect me, for he knew that I had not the knowledge or experience as a Second to support a Silver Sword who would be as untutored as I in the matter that we faced."

"So you _do_ remember." Wolsey approves, "Good. I knew it was in there somewhere. Your memory of that event was snatched and twisted against you."

"So that, too, was a lie…" I mutter, more to myself than to Wolsey.

"All that demons tell you is a lie, Richard. Always - for that is all that they know how to do. Even if they tell you the truth, it is such fashion as to serve their own ends. And those ends are the destruction of those against whom they are set. Leraje wanted to use you to destroy the Order, for it could stand against him as you and Thomas did against Lamashtu and Eligos. That you did not know what he needed to discover in order to achieve his aim prevented that - but his acts to force the knowledge to exist in your mind when it did not threw all that you know into confusion. He lied to you at every turn. For all Demons are children of lies. If you can recall what he showed you, and what he told you, and accept that it was false, then the truth shall return to you."

"I do not want to…" I cannot bear to think of it…not the cruelty, or the violation of my mind…even now my back is scarred by endless floggings, for while he erased the pain, it seems that he did not erase the wounds - and thus my flesh is a torn ruin of raised tissue and redness that shall never fade. If any were to see it, then they would think me a criminal.

"I know that you do not." Wolsey's voice is kind, "But you must - for until you eradicate the lies and accept the truth, you shall not be free of your confusion."

"How is it that I am less confused here?" I ask, suddenly, "When I am awake, the confusion is such that I cannot see my way - but now that I am here, I understand that what I was told by Leraje was all false - and there is no doubt."

Wolsey smiles, "Your waking thoughts are dormant, Richard. They do not interfere with the clarity in your deeper thoughts - the ones that emerge when you sleep. You recall me more easily in that world that lives in dreams - and thus I am able to speak to you. As you do not have anything to which I can anchor myself, this is the only way now that I can reach you."

"How do I conquer those waking thoughts? As soon as they are there, they reimpose themselves, and I am lost all over again. It was a desperate effort to recall the knowledge that my encounter with More was a falsehood - and even now I am still fighting to accept it."

How strange - even as I speak, I find that it all begins to make more and more sense, and the confusion seems to recede almost perceptibly. I wish that I could not remember, for the horrors are so intense that I can hardly bear to recall them. I was afraid, tormented, humiliated and beaten; I was told endless lies, and made to believe them to the degree that I could not determine whether they were true or not. And then…and then…

"He saw me, Eminence. All that I am, all that I was…he clawed through my mind as though I were nothing more than a worthless pile of papers to be examined and abandoned - and I could not prevent it. No one has seen me so deeply - even I have not…and now I can see it, too."

"And that is what has truly driven you into this detachment, is it not?"

I nod, "Oh God - I have often admitted that I was a vile man - but to _see_ it…laid before me so clearly…how on earth could More forgive me? How could I ever even forgive myself? If that vision of More was a falsehood, then so were my words against him - and even though I knew it, and I know it now - I never _saw_ it. It is as though I have looked into a mirror that has not shown me my reflection - but my true character; and what I see is ugly in the extreme."

"And that is the greatest torment of all, is it not?"

"I thought I was no longer like that - but what if I am?"

"Are you?"

I cannot answer. I had always thought that I had turned away from that; but Leraje showed me otherwise. What if that was also a lie? What if it was not? And that is the one thing that I cannot bear to unravel.

"How long have I been here, Eminence?"

"It matters not. Do not try to change the subject."

"I was lied to again." I venture, "Did you not say that demons can only lie? Or, if they speak truth, they do so only to their own benefit."

The deepest lie of them all - one that I am most willing to believe. Even if I know that I am forgiven by More, and that my act against Smeaton was not entirely my responsibility - and that Anne's fall was inevitable if we were to defeat the machinations of Zaebos, I still cannot truly believe that my darker nature is really gone. I lied, I manufactured evidence, I perjured myself to bring down a good man - and even after all that I have done to make amends, I still cannot accept that I have truly earned the forgiveness granted to me. As my better nature emerged, my disgust at the man I had been grew strong, and I could not be sure that I had expunged my former way of life. How simple a matter for Leraje to grasp that and turn it against me.

I can feel those shards returning, reforming as though the dropped glass is repairing itself and rising back into my hands. I am the Second to the Raven. I am Richard Rich. The Raven is Thomas Cromwell - the dearest friend I have ever had.

Now, when I awaken, I have to remember that.


	34. Turin

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Blurgle, I appreciate your comments. I wanted a familiar face from the past to re-emerge, and - conveniently - Chapuys inherited an estate outside Annecy later in his life, as he retired to the Low Countries, so I sent him south to inspect it at just the right time. Cromwell and Chapuys did get on quite well when they weren't on opposite sides of the political table, so it was nice to bring that into the story.

Rich's meetings with Wolsey have helped him find himself again - and he's on the way back. Just a little bit longer to go before he's there...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four

 _Turin_

I open my eyes to find that it is morning, and I have been away but a single night. It felt like far, far longer - as though I had been with Wolsey for days on end - but did he not say that the dream world in which we existed stood outside the passage of time?

But I must remember what I learned - for if I do not…

"I am Richard Rich." I tell myself, "I was once a politician in the Tudor Court of Henry the Eighth. I was the Solicitor General. I found the King's Secretary dying from a stab wound at my feet, and chose to save him. I became the Second to the Raven, and I still am."

That ugliness is still in my mind's eye - the ghastly reflection of my former self. But it is not the man I am now. It is not, and has not been for nearly ten years. Everything that was flung at me in my captivity was a lie, including the idea that my abandonment of my former self was false. It threatens to shatter the hold on myself that I have only just regained, but then I think of something.

" _Lezviye k moyey ruke._ " I hold out my hand, and clasp the hilt as my sword hears my call. I am open to its voice now, when before, I was not - and it speaks to me again. Lies. I was told lies - endless lies…but now the truth is in my mind once more, and Shadowsight shall not allow me to let it go.

Clutching the sword, I emerge from my chambers still in my nightgown, and go in search of Cromwell, for now I remember all. Who he is, who I am. What we are…

He is in one of the smaller chambers, where a light repast has been set out of cold meats, bread and ale. When he turns, he is startled to see my state - and also that I have my sword, "Richie?"

"I remember. God, I remember it all; I know what is true, and what is false - it was all lies, all of it." My voice is wavering in distress, for I cannot bear the weight alone. Not any longer.

He hastens across to me, and embraces me as I break down, "He told me that I was not changed, Thomas; he told me that I was as vile a man as I had ever been, and that I could not bear…for if they had forgiven me, but I was still so wicked, then they could not have done and I was destined only for hell. To be so separated from God…my name was not in the book of the living…"

"I am sorry, Richie," he weeps as I do, "So sorry. I could not come to you to save you from such misery - you are not that man. You know that you are not. Please forgive me, please - I cannot stand it that I have hurt you so."

"Of course I forgive you, but there is no blame, so I do so only because you need me to. You did all that you could to aid me - and my sword showed me that you would come. It gave me hope even when I did not know from whence that hope came."

We cling to one another, each shedding tears. But those tears are truly cleansing, for it is as though there was a shard in my eye that caused me not to see that I was being misled - and now it has been washed out.

Eventually, the tears dry, and we seek a chair each. I am more tired than I have ever been - perhaps that long dream took more out of me than I realised.

"Tell me what happened, Richie - your recovery seems remarkably quick."

"Time passes at whatever speed is needed to resolve matters when one sleeps. I think." I attempt to explain myself, "While I was with Wolsey, it seemed as though I was there for days - even though we said little. I needed to understand what Leraje did to me - and I could not do it while I was awake, for my waking mind would not allow me to confront the deepest of his lies."

"But now you have?" Cromwell asks.

"I think so. I am tired, and there are still flickers of that horror at the edges of my mind - but they are mere flashes and I know them for what they are. In time, they shall fade. I remember who I am, who you are. I remember all that I thought lost forever; for it was always there."

"How is it that your sword did not warn you of this?" He is frowning now, as though angry at Shadowsight for not showing me what lay ahead for me. But I remember a hideous dream of fire that struck me before we left for Luzern. We assumed it to mean the consequences of our failure to resolve the danger there - but that was not the warning. The warning was for me, and I did not understand it. But then, had I not been taken, would Cromwell have been able to raise the Cantons in support against the Oligarchs? Somehow, I think it unlikely; so perhaps it was to warn me that I must endure it - or that bond with my blade caused it to warn me in defiance of the fates, even though it was required of me to suffer.

"I think that it did." I say, very quietly, "I was shown a dreadful vision before we departed Baden; but we thought it to be a warning of the outcome if we failed. Perhaps it was - and I was obliged to walk through that fire in order to bring about the peace that has ensued. Had I known the depths into which I would be dragged, I would most assuredly have fled from it - for while I have grown more courageous in the years since I became your Second, I am not unfailingly brave in the face of that which I fear the most."

His hand reaches out to rest upon my arm again, and I am grateful for that contact. After all that I was forced to endure in that foul cell, to know that I am no longer surrounded by enemies is truly comforting, and I am grateful that he is here.

"Perhaps." He says, after a while, "But nonetheless, it was a cruel ordeal for you, and I am not sure that I shall ever be truly able to forgive myself for leaving you to face it alone."

"Had you not done so, then we would both be dead, I think. But you were spared capture, and thus were free to come to my aid. And so, I am here, I am alive, and I am recovered."

He nods, "I think you should dress, Richie. Then we can sit down and consider what we shall do next."

I look at him, "Why would we need to do that? I should have thought it was obvious. We wait for the snow to thaw, and then we leave for Milan."

The smile upon his face is broad, and worth waiting for, "And so we shall. Welcome home, Richie."

* * *

I suspect that my assertion that I am recovered and free to depart for Milan is somewhat optimistic, and rests solely upon my sense of elation that I recall that which I thought that I had lost. Even as we celebrate Christmastide - albeit in the Savoyard fashion - I am still haunted by cruel dreams, and there are times when I find myself utterly shattered with fear again. Despite the knowledge that those horrors are lies, their presence remains almost real to me, and there are days when I can barely bring myself to depart from my bed, let alone emerge from my chambers, and I refuse to let anyone near me until the terror passes and I remember that I can trust them. My clothes are rather loose upon me now, for I have eaten so little, and when I see myself in the rather fine looking-glass that Chapuys has mounted upon the wall of his great entrance hall, I am shocked at the thinness of my face.

We celebrate the birth of the Christ Child in a chapel within the Chateau, led by Chapuys's personal chaplain. I imagine that Cromwell struggles rather with the resolutely catholic tenor of the mass - but he is far too courteous to show discontent or annoyance at the absolute ignorance of his principles. He is, after all, a guest. Perhaps Chapuys is hoping that he can retrieve his former adversary from his supposed wrong-headedness in matters of religion. Whatever his hopes, it is, after all, his house, and so we celebrate in his way. I am grateful to be in a state where I can celebrate at all, and I find the service gives me a sense of renewed faith.

The snow continues, burying the gardens ever deeper in a blanket of white, and the sun is too weak to thaw that which already lies. When the weather is bright, however, it all looks so glorious that I am quite content to seat myself in a warm chamber and look out across it - the wide vistas of mountains and the lake are a comforting contrast to the horrors of my imprisonment.

Cromwell can see that I am still felled by those horrors from time to time, but he seems to be far less surprised at this than I am. Sometimes I lose my temper to such a degree that I am quite violent: and my anger always seems to be directed at him. I have forgiven him as he asked - and I know full well that he was not to blame for my capture - but still I need to enact some form of vengeance, and Leraje is no longer present to endure it. Thus I scream abuse at him, strike him and set all responsibility upon him for leaving me imprisoned for so long; and even, on occasion, that I hate him for doing so - and I mean it, too. That Cromwell accepts it as he does is remarkable - for he could easily knock me down; but he still feels a strong sense of shame at failing me, I suppose, and accepts it as his due. That such outbursts of rage are always followed by an equal storm of tears is cathartic, however, and once the tempest has passed, I feel considerably better.

As no messengers can now get through to us, the letters from Agnes have stopped - though I know that, once the messenger can reach us, I shall have a large pile to read. Instead, I pass the time writing a letter to her, as I have not done so for far too long. While she has been told that I have been unwell, I know that I must tell her that it has been far more than that - for even if I were slightly ill, I would have found some means to reach her. Thus I tell her that I have been very sick; which is true, in a way, and tell her that I am still recovering, but I found her letters to be a great comfort. I say nothing of what happened to me in Luzern, but instead tell her of the beauty of the views from the estate, and the pleasure of riding in a sleigh. Perhaps, one day, when she is older, I shall tell her what really happened to me - but even if I do, I can assure her that her letters to me were precious, and helped to bring me home.

We celebrate the feast of the Epiphany in the midst of yet another howling snowstorm, a well roasted haunch of beef with baked apples, a thick corn porridge, fruited bread and a selection of sweetmeats that are made from dried and sugared fruits. I find that I have a far better appetite than I have had for some weeks, and I probably eat far too much - but that I have done so is good evidence that I am finding my way out of my illness of the mind, and regaining a sense of safety.

After another two weeks, there is a break in the weather which permits a messenger to reach us, and thus I am able to dispatch a letter to Cecil which contains that which I have written to Agnes. As Cromwell was able to alert the spies to our location before the snow fell, the man who comes to our door is one of the Order, and he delivers a large packet of papers that are not for the master of the house, but instead for one of his guests.

Not all of the papers are confidential, however, as they refer to matters at Court which are of interest to us from a personal, rather than political, view.

"Negotiations between England and Lorraine are bearing fruit, Richie." Cromwell says, reading through the report, "It is looking likely that his Majesty shall marry Elisabeth of Lorraine, by proxy at least, before the year is out. They have met on several occasions now, and each meeting increasingly shows them to be well matched."

"Then I hope that all shall be well for them, for he is still a child, as is she."

"They have been given a choice, and that is helpful. All royal marriages have a political end, and the emotions of the celebrants is of secondary importance. It is always a matter of hope that the couple shall find at least common ground - and the signs are there that they shall make a good marriage together." He smiles, then, "Talking of marriage, the Lady Elizabeth married his Grace the Earl of Leicester just prior to the Christmastide feast. There were no objections to the match - which surprised all upon the Council, I'm told - and they seem most happy. The Queen has agreed that they continue to live at Court, rather than establish a household outside the Palace - though the King has granted them Hatfield, Enfield and Chelsea."

"What is Cecil's view?" I ask, for we are seated in the lea of the Boathouse to capture what little warmth there is in the sun - and Chapuys is not present to overhear.

"He is slightly unnerved, Richie," Cromwell's smile widens, "for the Lady is well apprised on all matters relating to the Order's activities in the English Court, and expects reports from him. He is rather concerned that she shall require to become his equal in terms of support for the Hawk."

For the first time in months, I laugh, "That, at least, I did not have to face."

His expression at the sound of my mirth is quite heartwarming. Perhaps now I am truly beginning to recover.

* * *

The snows remain for nearly another month, and until the passes through the mountains are clear, we are obliged to remain at Annecy. That Chapuys continues to host us - and so generously - is remarkable, for I never thought him to be so conscientious a host as this. He certainly didn't seem that way when we were all still in England. He could easily be on his way north by now, for he has no need to travel through the mountains to get back to Brabant, but still he remains, and looks after us quite handsomely.

Now that I am more able to face victuals, I am filling out again, and my clothes no longer look as though they have been hung upon me. The dark circles under my eyes - a true testament to my exhaustion and suffering - are receding, and I am more able to dismiss the nightmares that still strike me on occasion. These, too, are receding, and that sense of pleasure in living has begun to re-emerge. Looking back upon what I suffered, I realise that the weeks prior, when we travelled together were - despite my embarrassing tears in that barn - some of the most pleasant experiences of my life. That I was brought so cruelly down to earth again is unfortunate, perhaps; but I survived that ordeal, and to some extent, I am beginning to feel stronger as a result of it.

I wish that I could escape, however, from that dreadful vision of myself as an ugly creature - for I rejected that way of living my life over a decade ago. I think, once, I read a story of a mirror that showed the one who looked into it, what they truly were, not what they thought themselves to be - and I knew even then that such an object would be a curse upon the one who found it - for do we not all hide from ourselves to some extent?

Wolsey has not approached me in my dreams now for some time - and I was beginning to wonder if he could only do so because I was in such distress; but when I open my eyes to find myself once more in that verdant meadow, I know that he has not left me entirely.

"Is there something else that we must discuss, Eminence?"

He turns to me, "I think you know what it is, Richard."

I nod. He is thinking what I am thinking, "How I can continue to think of myself as the wretch that I once was, when I have done so much that is contrary to the way I used to be."

"You are looking in the wrong mirror, Richard." He says, very simply, "That is all. You know as well as I that it is not who we are, but what we do, that marks us out in our lives. The things that you did before you became the Second to the Raven are despicable - of course they are, and you know that. So are the things that occurred afterwards, when so many were destroyed in order to bring down a demonic pact."

"And what we did to Surrey." I add, rather sadly - for even when we did it, we would have given a great deal to have persuaded him to band with us, instead of being obliged to bring him down.

"What of the lives you have saved?" he asks, "If you had not chosen to fetch the Sovereign Specific to Thomas that night, then he would have died - and so would many others. There was no Second to aid and advise a new Silver Sword - and no time to introduce him to the Court. The Boleyns would have succeeded in their aims, only to discover too late that their involvement was incidental only. Anne would still have died - but many, many more would have died with her, for Lamashtu would not have required many men to survive had she claimed England for her own."

"History shall not view me kindly." I admit, "But I cannot complain, for that was in accordance with my design."

"What does the view of history matter?" Wolsey asks, "It shall view me as a greedy cardinal who attempted to take too much power and wealth for himself; and, in that, it would be correct. What is that to me now? I am forgiven, and I was granted the privilege of aiding the greatest battle that has ever faced England. The greatest measure of our success is that none shall ever know that it took place."

"I did not ensure that when I was bound to that stake." I admit, "The destruction of Leraje was seen by many."

"You are being too credulous - and you are forgetting how easily men persuade themselves that they have seen something entirely different to that which occurred in front of their eyes. Even now, those who were there believe only that they witnessed the aversion of a disastrous war that would have left them almost certainly facing absorption into the Habsburg Empire."

"Maybe so - but how can I at least diminish that ghastliness that I saw when Leraje revealed it to me?"

"As I said, you are looking into the wrong mirror. Look into the eyes of those who love you, Richard. They see you for who you truly are - and they are not afraid to tell you the truth if you have erred. Even that old rascal Chapuys views you far more kindly than he did when you were adversaries. It is possible to commit the most egregious errors - but repentance and a determination to be a better man shall bring redemption. To think otherwise is to fall into the trap of Leraje's lies."

"Another of his lies." I add, ruefully.

"One, of many." Wolsey smiles, "Now, get you gone. I have completed my task, and there is no need for me to come to you again. There is a light ahead for me, and I intend to reach into it. I was the first Second ever to be truly prepared for the task - make sure that I am not the last."

"I shall. I promise." Is he truly to go? Once, I would have rejoiced, for I found his presence hard to endure; but now I grieve, for I have come to rely upon his counsel, and his angry reprimands when they were needed, "I shall miss you."

"It has been a remarkable experience." He agrees, "When we are all united again, I shall look forward to the conversations we shall have."

"As shall I." I reach out to shake his hand, only to find myself clasped in a powerful embrace. God, even in death he is strong.

"Look after him, Second. That is ever our task - and, regardless of my complaining - you have done so, and done it well. I shall visit him tonight, for the Rosary makes it possible. Thus the two of you can retreat into maudlin introspection on the morrow."

* * *

The snow has retreated to the highest peaks of the mountains, and the first mule train has come through the passes. After nearly another month, we are finally free to depart. Remarkably, despite our enforced stay for such a time, we have managed not to outstay our welcome, and Chapuys seems quite loath to see us go.

"I have enjoyed this time, gentlemen." He says, as his own stewards are equally busy packing up his belongings to travel back to the Low Countries, "Wherever you are bound - if it is not back to England, then go with my heartiest wishes for your safety and security."

"We owe you a debt that I think we shall never be able to adequately repay, Eustace." Cromwell advises, "But for our encounter upon the road, we would not be in this position. Whether God brought us together, or sheer chance, your offer of sanctuary has set us back upon our intended path - and for that I shall be ever grateful."

"Though I think that my gratitude is the greater." I add, "But for the time I spent here, I think I should have gone out of my mind - and ended my days shut away in a madhouse."

Chapuys takes my hand in both of his, "I witnessed the remarkable change in your dealings with men while we were in England, Richard. To see you in such straitened circumstances was dreadful, and I am grateful that I was of assistance to you in your recovery."

Then he steps back as we mount up, "Godspeed to you both."

"Perhaps, when we are all in our dotage," Cromwell says to me, once we have departed the estate and are back upon the road, "We, shall go north and tell him all. Now, however, I think is not the time. Regardless of the years that have passed since he left England, he is still a dreadful old gossip."

Our route through the lowest of the passes is still astonishingly cold, and large piles of snow are even now slowly shrinking as the gradual encroachment of spring begins to thaw them. While the clothes I wore when I was taken have long been lost, the garments that I was given to replace them are of excellent cut and manufacture, and the warmth of the sheepskin jacket under my cloak is most welcome. I think that Cromwell is still watching me quite carefully, for fear of relapse - and I cannot blame him, for I fear such an occurrence, too. While I am certainly far better now, there are still times when the horrors attack me, and I suspect that shall be so for a long time to come. Maybe for the rest of my days. The difference now, however, is that I know them for what they are - and the sense of encroaching panic shall pass in time. Cromwell knows it too, and if there are times when I feel myself sinking into a quagmire of terror, he merely leads me aside, and talks quietly to me to assure me that it is but a temporary state - and I shall recover myself.

We have not resumed the existence of vagabonds, as I think I could not contemplate such a thing. That I can do so if I need to is evident - but after weeks of misery in a dank cell, we travel from town to town, as they are more closely gathered here for the sake of the drovers and mule trains that go through the mountains, and spend each night in an inn. It should take us no more than two days to make this journey, but I am still surprisingly weak after a long period of hunger and cruel treatment, and thus we travel slowly, and rest often.

As we make our way along well-kept roads through fine countryside, I find myself more able to think of matters other than those memories, and thus take far more notice of my surroundings. As I do so, however, I can see that Cromwell is rather pensive, and speaks of trivialities far more regularly than he would ever have done so before. While I have forgiven him, and he is assured of it, he still seems to carry much guilt for his failure to come to my aid as quickly as he should have wished.

Eventually, we pause in a small town of little note but for a rather fine lodging house and I feel I must ask him to speak of it, for as I regain my sense of self, he seems ever more remorseful. We have been served an excellent supper in a small, private room, and now seems as good a time as any to raise the matter, "Thomas - you have not spoken of your efforts to come to my aid in any great detail. Why not?"

He does not look up, "There is little to tell, Richie. I failed you, and you paid for it in blood and misery."

"No. You did not fail me - you found me before I was burned, and saved me from the fate I dread more than any other. My anger is long gone, for I know that you would have moved heaven and earth to reach me had it been possible - but you are not God and cannot do what He can do."

He sighs, and sits back in his chair, "I awoke at some indefinable time in the night, and found myself under a collection of milk churns - but you were gone, and as my memory began to recover, I surmised what must have happened to you - for I knew that you would not have left me willingly."

"In some ways, I did - for I knew that, if you remained free, you would be able to come to my aid." I remind him, "Thus I did not attempt to help you, but instead pretended that I had come alone. The men who found me assumed me to be so - and the demon did not realise that I had not been until we had long departed Sempach."

He nods, sadly, "I cannot fathom what cause me to be so felled by the demon; for I have never known such an effect upon myself. I was stung in the head - yes - but this was different. It was as though the ability of the demon to inspire discord reached that abrasion upon my soul, and its coldness felled me. The Rosary could not protect me from it: that is all that I can imagine to be what happened to me. At the time I cared not what had caused me to faint - only that I must find you, for I knew you would pay brutally for your capture.

"I could not find any means to enter the castle - for that sense of discord was so strong that I became faint again if I stepped too close. Thus I returned to our lodgings, fetched our horses and returned as quickly as I could to Baden, in the hope that most of the Tagsatzung were still present, and thus I could find some means of ending the determination to enter into conflict with the families of Kyburg, Staufer and Lenzburg. Unless I could unite the other Cantons against them and persuade them to sue for peace, I was helpless, for I was but one man - and not even every Silver Sword in the Order could have forced such an outcome.

"Wolf was still present when I arrived. He had done what he could - but the talk was still of conflict, and all but two of the Governors had returned to their Cantons. When he learned what had happened to you, he sent a messenger to the Great Archive by fast horse, as I sent another to Cecil, for we knew not what we were facing, and thus could not plan. It was Wolf who deduced that you had been transferred to the Kyburg stronghold, which was some distance from Luzern on the banks of the great lake alongside which the town sits - and I would have gone there at once. But I could not - for neither Wolf nor Eagle had what I had: our credentials from Queen Jane. Thus Eagle volunteered to attempt to reach you, while I was forced to remain in Baden.

"After a week of helpless worry, Wolf had the assurance of the Cantons of Baden, Zürich, Zug and Bern that they would be prepared to meet and negotiate an alliance to formally withdraw the declaration of war against Luzern. They agreed that they would gather at Zürich, and thus we departed there to wait for yet another week while they took an inordinate amount of time to reach us."

I am not surprised that he sounds bitter. There is no wait worse than a wait for others to come to you when you need them to be quick - but they are not.

"Eagle returned to us after ten days, injured and most dismayed, for he had found the castle, and was convinced that you were within it, but he could find no way to enter - and had barely escaped with his life when they had discovered him." Cromwell looks pained, "I lost my temper with him, and called him a coward - amongst other, dreadful insults. To his credit, he accepted them without anger - though Wolf delivered the first of those several slaps to the face that I mentioned, and demanded that I withdraw the insults. Begrudgingly, I did.

"At the end of the third week, I was hard put to remain still, for I could not begin to imagine what must be happening to you. I had brought you out of England, taken you from all that you knew - all whom you loved - and cast you into imprisonment. I could not begin to imagine what horrors that demon had planned for you; but I could feel the evil in his bosom, and the cruelty that accompanied it. Sometimes I dreamed of it - long, nightmares where I could hear you crying out for me, but I could never reach you. We had news from the Archive, but it was of little aid to us, for the archivist admitted that he could not easily search it. Thus, my only hope was Wolsey, and the Library."

"And he provided what you required?" I ask, quietly. Once more, the Cardinal's thoroughness has saved us, it seems.

"He did." Cromwell agrees, "After another dreadful week of arguments, reopening of old wounds, walkouts and persuasions to return, I received a packet of papers from Cecil - and I knew at last what we were facing, for the Cardinal's Index had revealed it in less than half a day."

"Leraje." It is hard for me to say the name.

"A Grand Marquess of Hell." He says, quietly, "In command of thirty legions, and able to inspire discord and conflict. Thus he had done so. All we could do to defeat him was to cede for peace - for that would leave him with nothing, and I could then fight him. But the governors seemed almost gratuitously unwilling to reach an agreement, and again Wolf was obliged to slap me when I demanded that they be forced to do so - for if they did not, you would die, and all of mankind would follow. It was clear to us all that, should the Cantons falter, the instability and chaos would permit Leraje to establish a fortress as Lamashtu and Eligos had attempted to do in England - and with the same intention.

"Eventually, after several more days of intransigence, I was awoken by a dream that filled me with such horror that I would accept no argument, for I saw you helpless and bound to a stake as flames engulfed you. Whereas those before had been mere dreams, this seemed so utterly real to me that I was convinced that I had been shown a vision of your fate if I did not act, and quickly. So I abandoned decorum, and pleaded with the Governors to find a solution, for if they failed, then all of the Confederacy would falter, and fall into the hands of foreign princes - thereby plunging half of Europe into war. I reminded them of my former life - of my service to Henry - and, at long last, they came to an agreement.

"But it was still not over - for they were required to assemble men at arms. It was decided that each Governor would bring a thousand men, with the promise of more to follow. Thus we departed from Zürich, and came to Luzern as quickly as we could. As we entered the city, there seemed to be few about, and it was said that a heretic was to be burned in the town. I knew - without having to guess - that they meant you. It was too close to my dream to be otherwise. Thus we entered with all haste and travelled to the burning ground, whereupon I fought my way to the executioner and hurled away the torch that would have set the fire beneath you."

I look at him awhile, his expression still stricken - for he had come so close to arriving too late to do anything other than watch me burn. My own suffering was almost beyond endurance, but I know that he, too, suffered - for he had brought me here, and fainted when I needed his protection as a Silver Sword. He has always considered it his greatest duty, next to the Mission, to protect me as his Second - even when I had become able to protect myself. To have failed, and for that failure to have brought me almost to my death, has struck him to the core - and even now he seems unable to forgive himself.

"I know that you have forgiven me, Richie." He says, eventually, painfully, "But still I cannot believe that I am worthy of that forgiveness - not after all that you were forced to endure. It was my duty to keep you from harm as best I could - but…just a few more minutes, and I would have been forced to watch you engulfed in flames. If you feared to fail me, then I assure you I feared equally to fail you."

"I had hope, Thomas. I was shown a vision - a dream - too. A dream in which golden phoenix wings blew out the flames of the pyre, while a hand extended from raven feathers to touch my tongue and free my voice. Even in the midst of my lost helplessness, that remained - for I had at least some sense that I had not been forgotten."

"I shall not let it happen again, Richie." Cromwell's voice is firmer now, "I shall not fail you. You have been a greater friend than any I have ever known, and there is still much to be done. I ask you to grant me your forgiveness, in the hope that I might be able to forgive myself."

I rest both my hands on his right arm, which is set upon the table, "I promise you - here and now - that I shall never speak of this matter to you in a fashion that lays blame upon any other than the demon that came upon us. I hold no blame upon you, nor shall I ever do so. Forgiveness is inappropriate - for you did all that you could to reach me, and to save me. Perhaps no one but you could have found the words to force a truce - and to retrieve me from my captivity was the impetus that spurred you on. It is not for us to know God's will - but all came right in the end, did it not? I live - and I am stronger for my ordeal, I think. Perhaps I shall never fully recover, but that is not upon your account. Nonetheless, I think that your need to be forgiven is such that I would not hesitate to do so; and thus I forgive you, wholly and absolutely. I forgive you for fainting under the burden of Leraje's darkness. I forgive you for your helplessness against the slow actions of others. But also I thank you - I thank you for reaching me at the very last, and saving my life. It was for me to find myself, and Wolsey aided me in doing so, as did Chapuys - and you, also. I beg you - let us draw a line under this incident, and look to the future. We have work to do, do we not?"

At last, he smiles, "We do indeed, Richie. I thank you for your kind words - and I swear to you that I shall also set it aside. Those times are done, and we have our future work in Milan to consider. Given that the Great Archive could not aid me when I sought information, but Cecil could, I think your arrival shall not be a moment too soon."

"Amen to that."

After a leisurely week of travel, during which our joint mood improves almost with each passing hour, I see a large city set out before us as we crest a fair sized rise of hills, and assume that I am looking at Milan, but Cromwell shakes his head, "No, Richie, that is Turin. There is a man there whom I think you shall benefit from meeting."

Our journey is, as always, to one of the Order's Dovecotes. The Turin Dovecote is as anonymous as any, but is identified by the presence of a dove carved into the lintel, "I know the location of this one." Cromwell says, looking pleased that he has not been obliged to consult his little book, "I think you shall find our time here most useful and instructive."

As I am in the dark, I am rather nervous as we are granted entry to the house, and guided upstairs to the well-concealed interior of the Dovecote. Within, a silver-haired man with a benevolent and kindly expression upon his face looks up to greet us, "Welcome, Raven. I am glad to see you, and your Second - I believe you have been unwell, Mr Rich?"

I have not been called that in some time - and I am so grateful to hear it again, "I have, Sir - but I am largely recovered now."

"Allow me to introduce Signor Francesco Poletti, Richie. He once held the Hound blades, but when he retired and restored them to the House, he chose to remain here and establish this Dovecote as a repository for those papers and items that could not be handled by our Factor in Padua. It is to here that books, papers, letters and documentary information is delivered prior to its dispatch to the great Archive in Milan."

"Or to London, Raven." He smiles, "There is another great archive there, too, after all, thanks to both of your Seconds. Even now, I am astounded at the brilliance of the late Cardinal's indexing system."

"I certainly found it most helpful, Sir." I agree.

"Francesco, please call me Francesco - I am too old for such nonsense as formality. Where I am obliged to use formal names, I do so, but now that we are all introduced, I see no need for it."

"Then I am happy to do so - if you will oblige in referring to me as Richard."

"With pleasure. Shall we dine? My cook has been turning a fine haunch of venison for most of the afternoon, and I am sure that it is ready."

* * *

I have spent a week amongst books, papers and ledgers, reading Latin and Greek, and discovering how Poletti has organised his remarkable collection, prior to dispatching it either to the Archive in Milan, or to London if he considers the information to be of use to that outpost further north.

It was becoming clear to me - thanks to Cecil's hard work in the Library - that a dedicated individual to manage the papers it held was essential at Grant's Place, and the discovery that there are equally no such people even in the great Archive at Milan shocks me. If I struggled to keep control of what was being sent to Grant's Place, then how on earth do they manage there? No wonder they could not find any information for Wolf.

"It has never been considered necessary to formally train Seconds, Richard." Poletti says, "Most of those who are appointed have come from the great Universities, and thus are considered to be adequately trained. As you and your predecessor have proved, a Second is only as useful as his resources permit him to be. Wolsey was trained - but you were not. Consequently, while you were able to find your feet - a lesser man might well have failed to do so.

"I came very close to it." I admit, "There was a time when I would have walked away from the whole business, for I was so consumed with the conviction that I could not carry the burden."

"In that, you would not have been the first had you done so. More than one Second has faltered under the weight of responsibility that he carried to protect and advise his Silver Sword. It has not been unknown for Seconds to take their own lives."

I shudder at the thought, "I was fortunate, for Wolsey remained in Purgatory, and was able to aid me - and Thomas was protective of me as I learned my way. In my case, perhaps, it was a calling; but if we are not as careful with our choice of Seconds as we are with Silver Swords - even if we are not obliged to seek out those who can sense ichor - then others could falter as those in the past have done. It is not easy to both support our Silver Swords and manage the papers that are sent to us in the course of our duties. The presence of William Cecil in the Library at Grant's Place showed to me that the Library requires a man to oversee it at all times - not merely whenever he has the time."

"And what is your intention?"

I think for a while, "I think it is important that we do more than merely seek out Seconds. We should find and employ those who have a good intellect, but are also highly organised - for there must be plenty of such people in the Universities. They should undergo some form of induction into the Order - though whether it should be as full a commitment as it is for those of us who are Seconds is something that we should consider carefully. I suspect that I am quite unique in that no other Second has been called to arms as I have - consequently, I am perhaps more closely integrated into the inner workings of the Order than most others."

"You are indeed, Richard." He agrees, "In some ways, I think it would be helpful to all if the Second could be granted more responsibility for matters within the Courts to which their Silver Swords are assigned. Perhaps an archivist to manage their papers, while they are the ones to whom the spies report."

"That depends upon how willing their Silver Swords are to give up that responsibility." I muse, "I was fortunate, in that Thomas trusted me so utterly that it did not occur to him to object when I was granted it."

"Have you ever met another Second that you did not train?" Poletti asks.

"Only one: Pelletier, Falcon's Second."

"Ah, yes - Francis. A good man." he approves, "While there is no denying that your relationship with your Silver Sword is a bond almost deeper than blood, it is not unusual for such bonds to develop. There have been occasions where the two have failed to even like one another - such pairings do not usually end well, for if there is no trust between a Silver Sword and his Second, what use is one to the other?"

Our discussions are always interesting, and occupy my mind to a degree that those lingering horrors that remained with me when I left Annecy are beginning to sink back into those recesses of my memory that house events that were ghastly at the time - but no longer have the power to haunt me. Furthermore, my interest is so piqued that I am very keen to go to Milan, and begin work on creating the very system of learning that would have been of such benefit to me had it been available when I first agreed to be come a Second myself.

We shall find educated, intelligent people - men _and_ women - and those who are strong enough to bear the burden of a Second shall become Seconds, while those who are less strong, but are still most capable, shall become archivists and work with Seconds to maintain worthwhile resources to aid and advise Court Silver Swords. The Seconds shall learn to control the activities of the Spies in their domains, and they shall be offered the opportunity to learn to defend themselves - for I am shocked at the number of Seconds who have died in service thanks to their inability to fend off a demonic attack. I nearly became one of that unfortunate company when Zaebos stabbed me, after all.

Poletti is surprised at my insistence that the Order should accept women to be trained as Seconds - until I remind him that the Iberian Second is a woman, and he is rather embarrassed, as he has forgotten that my first apprentice was female.

My head is stuffed full of plans and ideas as I settle my canvas roll across Urban's back behind the saddle, ready to depart. I know from his expression that Cromwell is pleased, and I realise that he almost certainly came here to give me some time to drive away the last shades that ride upon my shoulders and weigh me down with doubts.

"And so to Milan, Richie." He says, cheerfully, "Perhaps rather later than intended, but better late than not at all."

"Indeed so, Tom." I have reverted to shortening his name again, perhaps the most visible sign yet that I am truly recovered, "I am most keen to see the House."

As I have largely regained my strength, we do not take the journey slowly, so it shall be probably two days or so before we reach Milan. The route is well travelled, but prone to banditry, so we ensure that we are well armed. Not that I carry any pistols, of course.

Our first overnight stop is in a small village inn, after an uneventful day on the road. While the inn is rather rough, the food is good, and the beds are not too hard or insect-filled, but I am quite convinced that a pair of men were watching us while we supped the previous night, and I am not at all surprised to find Cromwell priming his pistols as I emerge into the yard.

"You saw them too?" he says, as he notices my lack of a reaction to his activity.

"How far out do you expect them to be?" He has more experience of this sort of thing than I do.

"No more than a couple of miles. It may be that they have other victims in mind - but it is better to be prepared than dead."

"Indeed." I agree, "I should be most disgusted to have travelled all this way only to be murdered within the last twenty miles of my goal."

As he predicted, we are about two miles away from the village, when our route takes us through a narrow gully that has been carved into the high rocks by a busy stream that rushes cheerfully alongside the path. There are ample hiding places upon either side, with excellent cover thanks to the newly leaved trees and shrubs.

"They are either side of us now." Cromwell observes, calmly, "I think they shall either spring their trap, or let us by within no more than half a minute. Are you ready?"

I nod. Sure enough, within that half-minute, a rope is pulled up before the horses, which shy away from it. Perhaps some fall from their horses at this point, but both Cromwell and I keep our seats, and our swords are immediately at the ready. I note that he has both his swords, and now controls Benedict with just his knees and heels. I am a much better rider than I used to be - but I could not hope to do that. Fortunately, I only have one sword to worry about.

The bandits, when they come rushing down the hill, prove to be armed with nothing more than farm implements - and most of them in a shocking condition. One or two have swords of a sort - but none have guns, thank God.

I have no idea what they want, as their demands are in the local tongue, but it is close enough to the Milanese dialect that Cromwell has learned, and he dismisses their words with obvious scorn.

The fact that we are both well armed, and clearly were ready for them has caught them all off guard, and they seem most nervous to approach us - even though they have a clear advantage in terms of numbers, but the leader comes forth, apparently determined to persuade them that the threat we pose is minimal; and soon discovers that he was wrong as his right hand is swiftly cropped from his wrist, causing him to retreat, howling in horror at the sight of the bloody stump.

I wish I could understand what Cromwell is saying, but it could not be clearer that he is issuing a challenge - any who wish to come near us risk the same fate - and we are neither of us afraid to mete it out. As soon as he falls silent, he lifts his leg over the horses neck so that he is seated sideways, and drops to the ground, weapons brandished, and challenges them again. Used to compliant, frightened merchants, they are at a loss for a brief time, before another rushes forward, sword arm aloft, and is equally relieved of a hand - though this time his left as that was closest.

I have done, and said, nothing - for I know that I cannot dismount so elegantly, and I suspect I would merely find myself surrounded and disarmed before my foot was out of the stirrup. Instead, I maintain a grim expression, and show no shock at the two amputations. It is enough, thank God; the remaining brigands have no wish to lose appendages, and thus they hurry away. Their injured compatriots are left behind to stumble along in their wake as best they may.

"They have not seen lucrative trade here, Richie." Cromwell says, as he cleans his bloodied blade, "They did not look particularly enriched by their enterprise - but not so poor that they were desperate. It would have been better to my mind if I had not been obliged to remove their hands - but as that would have been the least punishment they could have expected had they been tried, I am sure that they shall think themselves fortunate in time."

The short contretemps has left us behind schedule somewhat, and we shall not reach Milan in time to enter before the city gates are closed. As there are no inns of worthwhile repute nearby, Cromwell determines that we shall instead spend the night under the stars, as the weather promises fair. Thus we make our way through the woodland either side of the path until we are upon a large escarpment, and he busies himself with the canvas rolls to fashion a shelter as I stand upon the hilltop and look downwards at the city of Milan spread out beyond.

I am still quite spellbound as Cromwell digs a small fire-pit, and retrieves the various items that I recovered from that French barn, along with some dried beef, rough bread that he must have purchased from the inn last night, and a small jar of beer. It is a matter of minutes to brown the bread in the heat of the fire, while he heats the beef in the skillet with some of the beer to soften it. A small meal, yes, but a pleasant one as we sit side by side, our backs against a wide tree trunk, and celebrate our last night as itinerants.

Somewhere below us, in that teeming city of spires and red-tiled rooftops, is the House; and, tomorrow, our new lives shall begin.

* * *

 **Another A/N:** Now that our Heroes have almost come to the end of their travellings and are on the verge of settling down in new quarters, a few comments on the locations that I've been using over the last few chapters.

The descriptions of Calais are fanciful, as the town was razed during the war and they opted to rebuild anew rather than hark back to the past. One of the few structures that isn't modern is the Tour du Guet - so I've referenced it. It looks like it was built in the thirties, but it is in fact medieval.

The description of the Rathaus in Basel is based on the building that stands today, though I am assuming that there was a Cloth Hall, as most large trading towns had one. The location of Wolf's Dovecote in Baden is also based on existing structures near the Stadthaus, which still has the room that was set aside for the Tagsatzung.

There isn't a castle at Sempach; though, it appears, there is a teddy bear museum (random factoid of the day). I thus put one on the outskirts of the town and imagined it to look like Chateau de Chillon, which is incredibly evocative, despite being absolutely nowhere near any of the German speaking Cantons (it's just south of Montreux).

While Rich had a rotten time in Lucerne (which is the name used nowadays instead of the German _Luzern_ ), I didn't, and I can't recommend the place enough. The house in which Rich begins his recuperation is - for dramatic purposes - located on what is now the Rathausquai, and I've set it where the Pickwick Pub is located on Google Maps - as it affords a magnificent view across the river Reuss, and you can see the famous Kapellbrücke from it; which is the wooden bridge that Rich can see from the chamber. You can still cross it today (and, indeed, I have). It dates from the 13th century, and we're lucky to still have it, as it nearly burned down in 1996. Ironically, the bridge is named after the Church of St Peter - the very one outside which Rich was nearly burned.

The old town is magnificently picturesque, with old squares, buildings with painted scenes on them, beautiful wrought iron signs over shopfronts and a restaurant in the Hirschenplatz that serves the best rösti in the known universe.

The castle in which Rich was imprisoned is made up - but it's located where the current, and conveniently located, Meggenhorn Castle now stands - a few miles to the east of the town on the shores of Lake Lucerne. The families of Staufer, Kyburg and Lenzburg were real, but all three dynasties had died out by the 16th century, so I didn't feel it was too tasteless to re-use the names.

I haven't the foggiest idea where Chapuys's inherited estate was, so I put it on the west bank of the Lac D'Annecy at the spot now occupied by the Hotel Auberge de Letraz, because there's a lovely boathouse there, and the view to the mountains on the eastern bank is fabulous (thank you Google Maps - even though the weather in the streetview shots is awful). You just have to pretend that there's nothing else on that stretch of lakeside - and it all belongs to Chapuys.

I've repurposed one more building - but that's in Milan, and we haven't got there yet...


	35. The House, and the College

Chapter Thirty-Five

 _The House, and the College_

The morning is bright and warm with the promise of a fine spring day. My concern that there was nowhere to wash or to trim my dreadfully rough beard is mitigated by the presence of a babbling stream a few yards away that rises from a small spring somewhere up in the hills behind us. It would not do to arrive at the House of the Order of the Silver Swords looking like a vagabond.

"There is a Dovecote in the City, Richie." Cromwell smiles, watching as I gingerly splash the cold water upon my face, "It is my intention to stop there before we arrive at the House, thus we can bathe and prepare ourselves before meeting the Grand Master. We shall eat there, and rest awhile, and enter the House in the afternoon."

Thank God for that. The water is bloody freezing.

From a distance, Milan seems very much like Turin, for the buildings are of similar aspect - many are built of red bricks, with red clay tiles upon their roofs. They are far more well organised than London, too; rising neatly to several storeys, but their upper floors do not jut out over the street as houses do in England. The streets themselves are remarkably narrow, however, which is rather unfortunate given the degree of effluent that seems to be flung from windows. It seems that one must take great care when traversing them in order to avoid the contents of chamber pots, for those who empty them seem not to look out of their windows, and give no warning before they act. In that respect, at least, it is almost as though I were home again.

The language is, of course, utterly impenetrable to me, for they speak a dialect derived from Latin that is quite specific to Lombardy, and it is much changed since those ancient times when men spoke that scholarly tongue as a matter of course. Cromwell, on the other hand, seems reasonably acquainted with it, having been surrounded by it in his youth - though he, too, is occasionally baffled, as it has been so long since he spoke it with any regularity.

Despite my ignorance of the words being spoken around me, I am quite fascinated by the differences of this remarkable City, and I wonder what Cromwell must have made of it all when he first came here as a youth. Perhaps now he shall tell me, for while I know the tale of his journey from Florence to London, there are many incidental details that have been long forgotten, but which might now re-emerge in the traversal of once-familiar streets.

The Dovecote is, apparently, still a mile or so away from the House, and is as anonymous as any that we have visited on our journey. Like all such establishments, it has a dove carved into the lintel, and we are welcomed inside by a well-dressed Milanese of similar age to Cromwell, a tall, almost skeletally thin man in black who says absolutely nothing at all; which I find remarkably ill-mannered.

As is always the case, the parts of the house open to members of the Order are well concealed, and we are soon seated before a very fine repast of braised rabbit with bread, and some remarkably salty cheese alongside that compliments the meat very well. Our host again says nothing throughout, and does not eat with us. In all the time that he is with us, he does not open his mouth even once, though I note that Cromwell is most polite to him.

I am not given even the first opportunity to ask why he is so rude, for as soon as he is gone, Cromwell turns to me, "Do not be alarmed by Giacomo's silence. His tongue was cut out many years ago for some foolish words that he spoke in the presence of a great Duke. He was sentenced to be cut to death, but the Grand Master at the time took pity upon him, for he was no more than a boy - and instead inducted him into service here. He understands all of the languages spoken by the Order, and at least five more. He is also an excellent lutenist - as he can no longer speak, his voice emerges in the form of the most wondrous music. I have never forgotten the first time I heard him play - I was billeted here just after I gained my swords, and Joachim's death was still a most raw experience. It was the only time that I ever shed tears over his loss - for the plaintiveness of the music spoke to me more deeply than words ever could."

I am most relieved that I kept my mouth shut.

"He cannot eat solid victuals as we do," Cromwell adds, "so he is obliged to consume only broth. That is why he is so thin. As he cannot do so without spilling quantities of it, he does so alone."

Now I feel even worse. God, I am truly a dreadfully judgemental man - even now. I shall need to put that aside if I am to find the most talented students to become Seconds.

We emerge from the Dovecote in the light of late afternoon, freshly bathed, and well dressed in far better garments than those in which we were travelling, and make our way through the narrow streets until a break in the long rows of houses reveals an astonishingly ornate gateway that rises almost to the height of the four-storey buildings alongside it. A grand archway is supported either side by two carved women who emerge from the stonework, draped in fine robes that suggest the majesty of ancient Rome, while above them a great timpan rises, enclosing a panel which contains the word 'SEMINARIVM' and is crowned by a set of arms of an ecclesiastical origin, for the escutcheon is crowned by a galero, while it is supported by two cherubs, one holding a cross, the other a crozier. I am most bemused as we approach it, for it looks to me to be a religious establishment.

The gates are closed, and Cromwell reaches up to clasp at a great handle; which, when he pulls it, causes a deep bell to chime within. As he does so, I note that Cromwell is wearing his raven gauntlets, something that I have not seen for some years, but he does not comment upon it, so I do not. There must be a reason for it, after all. After a few moments, a small viewing port opens, and a pair of eyes are visible through a narrow grille. Without comment, Cromwell raises his right hand, palm towards himself, and holds it for a moment, until that small port is slammed shut once more. Not a word has been spoken - but it is clear that a message has been given.

After a few moments, I can hear the sound of bolts being pushed back, and then the two halves of the solid gate are pulled open to admit us. The gatekeeper views us with astonishing respect - even me - and bows as we enter, before busying himself with the gate again while we dismount, for a pair of grooms are clearly awaiting us to take our horses.

"Welcome to the House, Raven." The Gatekeeper says, having re-bolted the gates, "If you could repair to the Cloister, the High shall call you."

"Thank you." He bows back, with equal respect; so I do likewise, for I suspect that this man is no common servant.

As I have no idea where to go, I follow Cromwell as he makes his way down the lane that leads from the Gatehouse to a large expanse of wall that is presumably the west range of the building proper. A path nearby seems to lead away into a garden, but we pass it and make our way along the larger lane.

"Why is this place a Seminary, Tom?" I am most confused by the entrance.

"To disguise it, Richie." He advises, as we pass under a row of trees with very strange looking, long leaves, "At one time, these buildings did indeed house such a place - until it was granted to the Order at the behest of a far wiser Cardinal than any that live today. No matter how discontented the great families of Lombardy are with one another, they never interfere in the operations of the Church. Thus we are safe from scrutiny. While the independence of this place from the scrutiny of the Church was set down long ago, in the centuries that followed, the higher Clergy began to reconsider that agreement, as distance of years dulled their remembrance of why it was set in place. Cassandra thus saw to it that the Cardinals and Archbishop do not ignore that independent state, and take it upon themselves to question us."

"She has done much for the order."

"More than most realise." Cromwell agrees.

"And people consider _me_ to be the greatest of Seconds?" I ask, rather cynically, I admit.

We pass through another gateway - Cromwell again showing the embossed raven on his gauntlet, and again receiving a respectful bow in return - and enter a wide plaza that is paved with red stone cobbles, and divided by carefully tended lawns and parterre beds. There are a number of stone benches scattered about, and a rather lovely stone pool at the centre from which a fountain plays soothingly.

It would seem that we are alone, but I can feel eyes upon us; and, sure enough, a few young boys dressed in black tunics are looking down from a gallery above our heads, wondering who we are. Or perhaps they know - for the return of the Raven to the House is unlikely to be a secret.

After a few minutes, a young man approaches us. From the way that he moves, it is clear even to me that he is well advanced in his training, and is likely to be ready to try for swords as soon as a pair become available. He bows as we rise, "Welcome back to the house, Raven. I am come to escort you to the High."

Cromwell nods, politely, "Thank you, _Dicipulus_."

As we make our way out of the courtyard, I suddenly feel a lurch in my stomach, as I realise something. If this young man is ready to try for swords, and requires only for a pair to become available, then that is about to happen. Before the month is out, there shall be someone else with those blades; Cromwell shall no longer be the Raven.

And I am not at all sure that I want that.

* * *

Cromwell leads me along a finely appointed corridor that is richly panelled in a dark wood, with well-woven hangings upon the walls depicting mythical scenes. Every so often, between the hangings, is a portrait, "These are each of the various Grand Masters of the House, Richie." He advises, "Though I suspect that you have already surmised that."

He stops at one that depicts a tall man in the long black tunic and a red, wide sleeved robe trimmed with gold that is worn by all of the men in the paintings, "This is Franz Keppel, Richie. He was the Grand Master when I was a student here."

I look up at the painting, which is perhaps not as remarkable a likeness as a Holbein, though it is still remarkably lifelike, and I am struck by the manner in which the artist seems almost to have captured the character of the man, "He looks kind."

"He was." Cromwell says, "But also wise. He knew that my attachment to Joachim was strong - and that I could not act with the ruthlessness of a true Silver Sword if the need arose. Thus he demanded that I be the one to lash my dearest friend. It was a lesson that I had refused to accept - until that moment."

"Would you do the same if asked now?" I turn to him, a little nervously.

"What - flog you, Richie? I fear I would cause my expulsion from the Order - for I would strike the High down before I did such a thing."

But then, he is now the most accomplished Silver Sword the Order has ever seen - so I suspect none would ever ask it of him.

We stop again outside a large door, where he knocks, quietly. After a few moments, the door opens, and another of the young men in sober robes is revealed beyond, "Welcome Raven. The High is awaiting you." He draws the door wide, and indicate that we enter, before withdrawing.

The chamber is of remarkable size, with a high ceiling, ornately plastered, with more of the dark wood wainscoting along the walls, and lit by wide windows formed of elaborate, ecclesiastically-styled stone tracery. The floor is that same rich, dark wood, with magnificently woven carpets set here and there. A number of comfortably upholstered chairs are set around a low table, while the walls hold more portraits, including one that looks rather new.

"That is the previous Grand Master, Richie." Cromwell explains, quietly, "Their portrait remains in this parlour throughout the service of their successor."

We then turn as another door opens at the far end of the chamber, and a tall, thin man with grey hair, a lined face and a remarkably kindly countenance emerges from what must have been a private study. Dressed in that same floor-length black tunic, Salvador Vaqué smiles at the sight of us, "Ah, it is good to see you at last, Raven. And your Second - I am pleased that you have recovered after your cruel experiences, Mr Rich."

Cromwell bows, "Thank you, Magister. I am also pleased that he is well."

"Perhaps it is as well that you recovered - for otherwise the Raven would never have returned to the house, and we should be doubly bereft."

"Doubly, Sir?" I ask; surely they were not _that_ much in anticipation of my arrival?

"There have been many Seconds who have served the order well, Mr Rich - but none as well as you. You have learned much, experienced more, and you found the fires. You have made mistakes, endured failures and celebrated great successes. As such, you are more than fit to begin the much-needed task of preparing Seconds for their work - the tuition that your predecessor received was extensive, and your feat of following - and exceeding - him with out either training or preparation was remarkable. A lesser man might have faltered - but you did not."

"I think you overstate my importance." I am reddening with embarrassment.

"Oh, I think that I do not." He smiles, "The Raven might not have told you - for he did not know - that there have been other Seconds who, when faced with challenges akin to yours, crumbled under the burden, and faltered. It is not spoken of - but there have been several occasions where Seconds have made grievous errors, and brought down their Silver Swords in the process."

I shudder, for I came dreadfully close to doing much the same. I recall that sense of horror at the thought of a band of unfortunate Seconds who had caused the deaths of their Silver Swords - and that I was about to join it. I had been assured at the time that it had never happened, and would not happen to me; but it seems that, in fact, it actually did.

"But for the assistance of the late Cardinal, Sir," I admit, painfully, "I would have been another such faltering Second."

Vaqué shakes his head, "But you did not falter. Of greater importance, however, is that you assured your apprentice of her freedom from culpability - and took the burden upon yourself alone. _That_ is of interest to me - for it suggests that you are a good teacher. And that is what I need. Your knowledge and experience is extensive - and your understanding that all Seconds falter and fail. But the need to make amends, to do the right thing, and to accept responsibility for one's own actions? That is as important a lesson to learn as any other. You can teach that, too."

He turns then to Cromwell, "You are not the only Silver Sword to be returning to the House, Raven. Hound was severely injured by a revenant a few months ago, and he has not recovered to the degree that he hoped. Thus he has opted to retire from service, and man one of the Dovecotes. His swords were delivered yesterday."

"How ironic." Cromwell says, "The gauntlets that were available when I took the Trial were those of the Raven and the Hound."

Vaqué shakes his head, "No, Raven. Only one set of previously worn gauntlets shall be offered. While you are to become one of the Masters, your swords shall remain yours. They shall be formally retired - and you shall be the last Raven."

His eyes widen at this. While I have no understanding of the ways of the Order, I suspect that to do such a thing as this is considered to be an honour.

"Magister - I am overcome." Cromwell bows again, "No Silver Sword's blades have been retired since those of the Lion two centuries ago."

"And you have exceeded his achievements, Raven. You deserve to be so honoured. We have instead instituted a new Sigil – Ermine." Vaqué indicates the chairs, "Please, gentlemen, be seated. We have much to discuss - for you are to become a Master, Raven, while you, Mr Rich, are to institute our Sister House for the training of Seconds."

"Please - I should rather you did not refer to me so formally, Sir. I am called Richard."

He smiles again, "If that is your wish - though when you lead the Sister House, you, too, shall be granted the title of Magister, as I hold - for as I lead this house, you shall lead yours."

"And I, Richie," Cromwell smiles, "shall be a mere Praeceptor."

We are served warmed cider and a selection of simple dishes at a long table that stands along one wall of the parlour, and Vaqué continues to talk to us of our new roles within the Order.

"At present, Raven, your knowledge of the work of a Court Silver Sword is such that I intend you to begin by advising those who win blades on the ways of Court life, and in particular the role of the Second. It is not unknown for Silver Swords to consider Seconds dismissively - which is a gross mistake. I know from experience, for I was placed in the Court of the King of France for a number of years - and my first Second was more experienced than I. Our first years together were fraught - for I could not accept that he knew more of our business than I. It was his near-death that brought me to my senses."

"As was the case with me, Magister." Cromwell admits, "I disregarded my Second's warnings, and almost killed us both in the process."

As we sup, I am regaled with stories of the Order - its beginnings from the horrors of the Crusades, its survival in the shadows when Philip of France brought about the end of the Templars by destroying those who resided in his lands. The first steps to introduce Silver Swords into the courts, and the discovery that they could not operate alone. It is quite fascinating to hear about those beginnings, when scholars were first brought into the Order. Their service seems to have begun in the same way as the Spies - learned men aided by Itinerant Silver Swords and eager to repay their rescue. Mostly men who had drawn the ire of the Church through their discoveries of nature and science, it seems.

"We have already secured a suitable House, Richard." Vaqué says, pouring me some sweet wine to drink with a selection of comfits, "We have not done a great deal of work within it, as the arrangement of the place should be considered with your involvement. Until it is ready, a set of rooms in the main House have been allocated for you as your personal chambers." He turns then to Cromwell, "We have allocated you the rooms that were occupied by the late Praeceptor who was formerly Eagle, Raven. They are of a good size, and well situated."

"Thank you, Magister."

"You shall find that your possessions have already been moved to your chambers - and you shall be fitted for new robes on the morrow."

I am very tired by the time I am escorted to my temporary accommodation by a short, heavily built young man in the black suit of a student. As he has not gained swords, it seems that he does not know that I am a Second - or even what a Second is - but he views me as someone who travelled with the Raven, and therefore deserving of equal deference. As promised, the few possessions that I carried with me from England have been brought to the rooms to join those other, most precious, possessions that were dispatched here before we left: that last letter from my late wife, a few pieces of jewellery that are of significance to me, a collection of favourite books and papers, and some items of clothing to which I have formed something of a sentimental attachment. I find that the chambers are of excellent aspect, lit by wide, diamond-paned windows that provide a view across red-tiled roofs towards distant hills.

To my surprise, there is also a packet of letters upon a table beside the window of my main chamber, and I find another accumulation of waywardly penned missives from Agnes. Thus I spend my first night in Milan absorbed in the doings of my daughter, and retire to bed feeling ready for whatever the new day shall bring.

* * *

I am not sure what the way of life is for Masters in the House, but I have been granted a new servant - a shy Englishman by the name of Peter who has a slight squint but a very agreeable manner. It seems that he arrived with a wealthy English candidate who abandoned him quite happily: and thus he was inducted into the House as a servant - for that was what he had always been. At least he had the satisfaction of watching his unpleasant former master fail within a year, and be expelled from the House.

Being utterly incompetent without the aid of a servant, even after several months as an itinerant, I am grateful to have him, and I think he shall become as valued a helper to me as John once was. He is also quite knowledgeable about the ways of the House with which I am as yet unacquainted - including the rather remarkable problem of how on earth those students who fail do not speak of the House to those around them.

"They go in to see the Grand Master, Sir." He says, "When they emerge, they leave - and it's said they never speak of the House to any again - as though they do not remember it."

He does not understand why - but I can guess. Cassandra must have taken steps to do it, even though many must have departed the House before she became a great Second. Perhaps whatever spell she created worked for those who had long gone from those hallowed doors? I cannot know - though I think it likely that I can find out now that I am here.

I have no idea where to go to break my fast, but I am relieved when Peter answers a knock upon the door to reveal Cromwell awaiting me outside, "I am not expected to begin my work yet, Richie, so today we shall spend time exploring the House, so that you shall not be obliged to rely upon others to find your way."

Our journey from my quarters is a short walk along a corridor and down a flight of dark wood stairs, and we enter a great hall with high walls through which great windows are pierced that allow copious light into the space below. A magnificent hammerbeam roof to rival that of Hampton Court or even the great Westminster Hall encloses the space, while the walls are warmed by yet more finely woven tapestries. There is a dais along the eastern wall, upon which is set the long table at which the masters sit, with a great central chair for the Grand Master, and Cromwell points to an additional chair that has been set for me. Facing the dais are several sets of tables and benches for the students.

The fare in the great Hall is simple, but good; and I am surprised to note that the Masters do not eat any differently from the students - for I have seen places where those who teach are well catered for, while those who learn are lucky to be granted victuals of even a quarter of the quality or quantity. The Grand Master is not present, but most of the Masters are either seated, or serving themselves from great salvers alongside the students.

"Apparently one of the young men who was injured in a fall two days past has deteriorated, Richie," Cromwell advises me quietly, "and the High is therefore with him. The welfare of those who come to us is of paramount importance - particularly in the face of the risks involved. Unfortunately, as you know, it is not unusual for students to be severely injured, or even to lose their lives, in the course of their studies here. As they give up all that they are, their families do not know that they are here - and frequently they wish to remain here even in death. Thus we have a small cemetery for those who are lost. Most of those who rest here are Masters - but some of the students are also here."

He falls silent, and we eat quietly amidst the burr of conversation amongst the boys on the benches below the high table. I think he must be remembering Joachim - perhaps he, too, lies here, and Cromwell is yet to visit his grave.

We spend much of the morning exploring the extensive corridors of the House, and he points upwards at a tower that rises alongside the roofs, "That is the tower, Richie. I climbed the outside of it to reach that doorway almost at the top, entered there, and climbed to the topmost chamber to claim my gauntlets." He stops, and sighs. I do not need to guess why.

"Is Joachim here, Thomas?"

He nods, his expression sad, "We had such foolish dreams - we saw ourselves as Itinerants, travelling together, fighting evil wherever we found it. It would never have happened, of course, for I was destined to enter a Court; but we knew nothing of that when we trained together. As he was almost my equal, I think it likely that he would also have done so - but there are no Courts where there is more than one Silver Sword in residence. I lost him, and with him I lost my joy of friendship. I granted my true faith to no man from that day forth; until that moment that you lay upon the floor in my chambers, your life bleeding out of you. In that moment, I saw a friend that I was in danger of losing, and I could not countenance it. I had begun to remember what it was to share my journey with a friend - a good friend - and that bleakness of being alone again was beyond contemplation."

"Shall we visit him? It is sad that I cannot meet him, but I should like to pay my respects."

He nods, and we make our way outside the main range of buildings to a green space that is shady with trees and thick with bright flowers. There is a kitchen and physic garden on the other side of the wall - I can see it from my bedchamber - but this is glorious, and it leads through to a wide space where headstones rise around a small chapel. As with the rest of the site, it is surrounded by a high wall that does well to block out the sounds of the city beyond, and the place is wonderfully peaceful.

Cromwell has never seen the grave, as he was obliged to depart from Milan before the burial. Consequently, it is nearly five minutes before we find the marker, set alongside the south side of the chapel. I feel something of an intruder, so I stand well back to give him peace for a while.

He remains beside the grave, on his knees, for a long time before he eventually turns to me. I am not surprised to see dampness about his eyes, but it is clear that he wants me to approach, "I have never regretted a moment of our friendship, Joachim," he says, "but for a long time I feared to find another friend - until this man saved my life and became my Second. He is as dear to me as you once were - we would have given our lives for one another, would we not?"

I join him upon his knees beside the grave, and we remain in prayer awhile. While Cromwell has reformist sympathies, I have retained my Catholic ways, so I pray for the repose of Joachim's soul - though apologetically, as I remember that he was a Lutheran, too.

Eventually, Cromwell rises to his feet, "Come, Richie. I am free to visit Joachim whenever I wish - you have a new House to establish. Shall we see the House that has been set aside for you?"

I do not admit it to him - but I am glad that he has said so. How foolish: I am envious of the love he has for a long-dead friend. God - what would I have been like if Joachim still lived? Annoyed with myself, I follow Cromwell as we make our way back through the gardens to a covered walk that serves to roof the way from the main House to that which will become a Sister House for Seconds - though it is separated by another wall. The gate is solid wood rather than a grille or wrought iron, and Cromwell is obliged to unlock it to allow us through, "This key shall be given to you, Richie - it shall be your decision whether your students shall be permitted to walk in the precincts of the main House."

While we are still within the grounds of the House, which takes up rather more space than its gatehouse suggested when we arrived, there are neat gardens surrounding these buildings, and ample room for both appropriate gardens and kitchens. This place is set to function as an entirely separate institution - the only link with its parent being that single pathway and the gate through the wall. Even the route to enter it from the great Gate diverges from the passage before it reaches the second gate - curving around the outside of the Quadrangle walls through well tended gardens to reach the new house.

The greatest surprise, however, is that a long building alongside this one houses the Great Archive - which is, I understand, also to fall within my purview. Intrigued, I prevail upon Cromwell to wait, as I wish to see it.

I am shocked.

The hall is enormous, and lined with long shelves that stretch back a considerable way, six levels high - with large ladders alongside them to reach those items at the top. A large space to the fore is taken by a number of writing desks that might once have been intended for scholars, though it appears that none ever arrived. The shelves are piled with packets, books, scrolls and loose papers that seem to have no order or sense to them, and there is no suggestion of an organisational method akin to that established by Wolsey. It is managed by a wizened old man who, alone, cannot hope to look after all that lies within it, and its state is such that I am amazed anyone can search it at all. No wonder the papers that were sent to Cromwell to warn him of my peril came from London rather than here. I think my first task shall not be to train Seconds, but to train archivists - to start evaluating the papers, to categorise them and to establish a proper index so that the each of the documents within that enormous space can be found.

I look back, and I note that Cromwell is grinning at me, amused that my mind has already begun to run away with itself with ideas, "Come, Richie - some work has been done in terms of furnishings in your House, but most of the work shall be yours as it is for you to decide how this place shall be run."

We emerge from the Archive and turn back to the large building that shall house my students and masters. It is no different in style from most of the buildings in Milan - a tall building with a steeply pitched roof of red tiles, and a simple porch at the front. Once inside, I am relieved to find that the place is sound, and that a great hall has already been set with benches and trestles, with a high table for the Masters - assuming there shall be more than merely myself. I think I shall ask whether there are any other Seconds who are due to retire from active service: I cannot hope to teach entirely by myself - not when there is an archive to run as well.

The lower floors contain a number of goodly sized chambers that shall serve as offices and teaching spaces, while the third floor shall do very well for accommodation in which the students can sleep.

There is one floor above, which looks to be intended for servants, and I wonder where I shall rest my head; but it appears our explorations are not yet over, and we instead leave the main house by way of a small door that leads into a small parterre garden, across from which is another building of fair size. Within, the house seems to be divided, with a sequence of rooms that I can only assume are to serve as accommodation of some kind - while the remainder is set out as a parlour, study and private dining room, with a suite above of a dressing chamber, bedchamber and stool closet. I am rather bemused at first, until I realise that this must be the accommodation for me. I was not expecting such palatial quarters at all - my rooms at the Palaces were not even half as fine as these.

"It is very much akin to those chambers granted to the Grand Master, Richie." Cromwell advises, obviously enjoying my astonishment, "If you are to be the Master of this House, it is fitting, after all. My apartments are very fine - but not even half as magnificent as these."

"Then I shall have to invite you to sup with me, and you can look upon my apartments with envy as I once did with yours."

"I shall look forward to it."

* * *

I am delighted with my new study, which looks out across the wider gardens spread between the House and the Wall. It is, if I am not careful, rather a distraction; and I should be busy, for I have much to consider.

Vaqué has advised me that all the needs of my House shall be covered by the Order, so those who need a physician shall be aided by the House infirmary, but otherwise, I am free to organise my new institution as I see fit. Having never been in charge of an educational establishment, I am utterly at a loss; so my first order of business is to request men who can teach those who shall follow us. Thus my initial request has already been dispatched via the Spies to all Court Silver Swords, asking them to nominate Seconds who shall do well in training apprentices. It is something that is incumbent upon us all, and those who have proved to be good tutors shall be most welcome to continue to do so here.

I shall now need to consider how many students we can accept, where we shall find them, how we shall house them and how they shall be fed. Only then can I begin to consider how they shall be educated.

Despite the enormous quantity of work that faces me, I am grateful to be busy - for now that I am no longer travelling, or at risk, I find myself haunted both by my memories of Luzern, and also by a most fervent wish that I could return home. I know that it shall pass - for homesickness is a temporary state - but nonetheless it is unpleasant, and there are even times when I find myself in tears.

I do not anticipate a large number of students initially - to admit too many at once would be most foolish, as none have attempted to do this before. Seconds usually train their apprentices alone, of course - as I did, and thus tailor their training to the degree of learning on the part of the student. Thus I shall need to ensure that all students have at least a similar degree of knowledge. Some sort of foundational learning…

And I am scribbling again. Always something else to think about - every idea that I have seems to spring forth at least another six. Should I institute a rule akin to that of the House - all communication on a single day should be in one tongue? If that is so, then what should be our _Lingua Franca_? If, as the House does, I admit students from many nations, then they shall not all speak the same tongue. Should they speak Latin? English? French? God - so much to plan…

By the time the first letters return nominating Seconds, I am well settled in my new accommodation, and my meetings with Vaqué are regular, as I have now begun to settle upon how the new House shall work. I have not developed any details of our manner of teaching, as that is something I would wish to consider in conjunction with my fellow Seconds, but I have largely decided upon how the House itself shall operate, at least.

As I asked, each nomination is accompanied by a letter telling of the work of the Second involved. Most have been well established, and have learned a great deal. None, of course, have taken up weapons alongside their Silver Swords - but those who have been nominated show an enormous accumulation of experience that would be ideal. Some seem more capable in demonology, while others in political and diplomatic work. Of those that have been nominated, three seem to be particularly of interest to me - as they are not only excellent at their work, but also highly trusted by their Silver Swords, and considered to be of excellent character. One or two Silver Swords have written to advise that, though their Seconds are excellent, and they would trust them with their lives, they are not convinced that they would be able to work with others, for they have not been effective in training apprentices. At least that is honest, I suppose.

One of the Seconds, Mathis Vermeulen, is newly retired, it seems, having only recently left the Emperor's court having trained up his successor to an excellent standard. He is Flemish, but speaks several languages fluently, and is known for having a friendly character that has served both his apprentice, and his Silver Sword, very well. His skill is most certainly in languages, so he shall be useful for that - but he is also well versed in the intricacies of the Emperor's court, which would serve as an exemplar for those who must seek out positions of importance in government. Another, Bernard Durand, is in the house of the Duke of Savoy, and was suggested by Falcon. Pelletier trained him, and he has proved to be excellent in the study of Demonology - which is essential knowledge for a Second, of course. He is rather young to retire - but his knowledge is vital, and his keenness to learn is equalled by his apparent enjoyment in imparting knowledge, so Pelletier has made it clear that we would be mad to ignore him.

The third, Modesto Bianchi, is the oldest of those named - and is retired, though he remains active within the university in Turin. His service was within the hallowed walls of the Lateran Palace, and thus he is of excellent use to us, for his knowledge of the history of the Order is second to none, but also his understanding of Church politics is equally vital. He understands the machinations of the Cardinals to a degree that no one else in the Order could hope to know, and is remarkably sprightly given his advanced age.

"A good selection," Vaqué approves, as I sit in his parlour during one of our regular meetings, "The knowledge of the history of the Order is essential for those who come here to understand the importance of their service. Understanding the politics of church and state in Europe is also vital - and the greatest importance of all, a knowledge of demonology. Your knowledge of your predecessor's great Index, and your experience of working amongst a good archive is of equal importance - and to have the Great Archive opened to your students shall induct them in the importance of careful research."

"I should like to offer the students the opportunity to learn to defend themselves, Magister," I add, "And, when she is prepared to do so, I should also wish to offer the Lady Margarita de Altamira a Master's post - for it is essential that we do not ignore the skills and capabilities of our female Seconds. When those that we train emerge to enter service, it shall be incumbent upon them to identify those who shall follow them - and they must not assume that a good Second does not wear a dress."

Vaqué laughs, "The Lady Cassandra would never forgive you if you did not."

I join the rest of the House to dine, as it is not my preference to eat alone unless I am particularly busy and cannot spare the time to leave my quarters. Cromwell is pleased at my progress, though he seems rather disgruntled, "I find it very hard to tutor these young men, Richie," He admits, "they look upon me as though I were one of the greatest of the Greek gods, and I fear that I teach them little other than continued adulation. That my sigil has been formally retired helps little, for it is considered a singular honour. I am the only Master in the House who is referred to by my Sigil."

"Give them time, Tom." I cannot help but laugh, "Once they realise that you are not Apollo, they shall become bored with your fame and you shall be able to teach them."

It seems that, as the Trials for the Hound and Ermine gauntlets have not yet taken place, rather than leave Cromwell with nothing to do, he has been given the opportunity to observe classes, and to decide what his subject of tuition shall be. His skills with weapons are undeniable, but it is his knowledge of diplomacy and the politics of Europe that is most useful, and both he and Vaqué are coming to the conclusion that they should institute tuition in these subjects - for it is of great use to those who shall be itinerants as much as those who shall serve Princes. He shall still speak to those who gain swords - but otherwise he shall teach those who are still in training the intricacies of politics between nations. They do not know why he was within the English Court - merely that he was. All that he needs to do is wait until they grow tired of their hero-worship and allow him to get on with teaching them.

As he has no classes during the afternoon, we return to the new House together, as I have made considerable progress in organising the buildings. My primary project now, while I await the arrival of those we have selected to teach here, is to work my way through the Great Archive, and do what I can to understand its contents with a view to arranging them into something akin to the Index that Wolsey organised.

"I miss him." I admit, as I look along the lengths of shelves, realising even now that people were exaggerating somewhat when they claimed my Library to almost equal this, "I think he would have looked upon this with relish - but I look upon it and know that I shall not complete its organisation in my lifetime."

"Bianchi can aid you, I think." Cromwell says, "He has worked in Turin for some years, and I think he could easily find some expert archivists that we could employ. While they would not be considered to be of the Order, as you and I are, their knowledge - if suitably recompensed, shall aid us greatly."

"Does Wolsey still come to you?" I ask, suddenly. If I have lost access to his knowledge, then perhaps the Royal Rosary enables him to still approach Cromwell.

"Rarely." He admits, "I think he feels that his task is complete - and I am sure that it shall not be long now before he is admitted into Heaven. As he has no means to approach you any longer, he cannot communicate with you."

"He came to me in dreams when I was ill."

"But now you are well, and thus it is likely that the conduit that opened the way for him is no longer present." He turns to look at me, "What is it, Richie?"

I sit down, "I am feeling overwhelmed, I suppose. When that happens, I wish that I was not here - that I was back in England being a father to Agnes as I was not. That I am alone in this house but for Peter seems to add to that burden."

"Would you prefer to move back into the main House until your new colleagues arrive?"

"That would oblige me to abandon my study." I smile back, "That is one place in which I feel comfortable - for it is a most delightful chamber. I have commissioned a portrait of Wolsey, and thus he shall continue to cast a disapproving eye over me - and then I shall be truly content."

"In that case, I shall impose upon you to sup - and you can spend an evening beating me at cards."

I am still becoming used to having access to a kitchen rather than sending my manservant to seek dishes from the kitchen of the King. The cook has become used to my tastes, and the victuals that he serves me are most enjoyable - obliging me to resume hard exercise in order to avoid the need for my garments to be let out.

Certainly, the supper with which we are presented is as fine as any served to King Henry, a magnificently turned leg of mutton with herbs and onions, with corn porridge - for which I am gaining a real fondness - and a rich wine sauce. The claret is of equal quality, and any guilt I might feel that we are being overly well fed is mitigated by the knowledge that the students in the Hall of the House are given the same victuals as the Masters.

"I think that the admirers are beginning to appreciate that I am not a demigod." Cromwell says, as Peter carves slices from the leg of mutton and sets them upon pewter plates, "I think I was able to complete the lesson without being obliged to view ranks of open mouthed stares. What of your progress?"

I received word from Giacomo - Vermeulen has arrived at the Dovecote, and shall be with us by tomorrow evening. Durand has had some difficulty securing consent from the Duke to depart, but he anticipates being with us before the end of the month, while Bianchi is likely to arrive in a few days. All of them have accepted with surprising keenness - and I am looking forward to meeting them. I think that Vermeulen has his apprentice with him - as he has only just begun his training, and thus he shall become our first student."

We end our meal with a selection of sliced fruits, and retire to the fireside to play cards. As he feared, I am trouncing Cromwell at each and every hand, but he is not at all disappointed, for he can see that I am happier than I have been in a long while. It has been painfully hard for me, but I have come through safely; and tomorrow evening, I shall no longer be a Second, but a teacher. Now I shall truly discover whether Sir Thomas More was right.

* * *

 **A/N:** Another note on locations.

The site of the House has purloined another extant building - and it is, indeed a seminary. While I have added grounds and a tower to it (and added lawns to the quad), the Seminario Arcivescovile is the base upon which I have built it - its enormous gateway that fronts onto the street is just as Rich describes it - though I suspect it's not as old as the setting of the story. Thus, I plead artistic licence. Ironically, today it's in the Fashion Quarter of Milan, and is surrounded by high-end clothing shops.


	36. Two Grand Masters

**A/N:** Thanks for the review, AllegoriesInMediasRes - yes, Rich has come through - though it's not something that'll ever entirely go away. Now he can get to work on that which he came to Milan to do. I'll bear in mind the possibilities of one-shots about the students and the Hawk, though!

That said, Rich is still making some assumptions about how the House works, as he's only just arrived, and some information is reserved for the Grand Master alone. Thus there are a couple of first impressions that he's made that he's got slightly wrong - which will be corrected in due course; but, first things first...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six

 _Two Grand Masters_

The man sitting opposite me in my study is smiling cheerfully, and seems most jovial. I am most embarrassed to find that he speaks English almost better than I do.

"It is, of course, thanks to you that we are able to do this, Mr Rich." Vermeulen says, sounding most pleased, "I have trained two apprentices myself, and to have an equivalent House to do the work to a consistent standard is more than I could have hoped for. My current Apprentice, Paul, stopped briefly to visit his family, so he should arrive in the next two days."

"Please call me Richard, if I may call you Mathis?" I venture. I have not been formally confirmed as the Grand Master of this new house, so I am very keen to avoid people thinking that they must call me 'Magister'. I should rather leave that to the students. How ironic - there would have been a time when I would have insisted upon it.

"Happily," he smiles, "I take it that you are most interested in my linguistic skills?"

"Very much so." I admit, "I am told that your apprentices have the best command of several other tongues of any of our pupils. I could not teach mine anything other than some Latin and Greek - though William Cecil came to me already fluent in those languages. My particular interest is in ensuring that they are prepared in the skills of researching and understanding the importance of order in the archive - as well answering practical questions on matters relating to the active work of Seconds alongside their Silver Swords. Signor Bianchi has already advised me of suitable men to work within the archive, and bring it into a form of order akin to my former library. I have engaged two of them who shall arrive by the end of the month."

"Excellent - is that when Durand is due to arrive?"

I nod, "I am expecting Signor Bianchi in two days' time - he is not as young as we, and therefore takes the journey at a more leisurely pace."

Vermeulen looks slightly embarrassed, "I have met the High - but I am yet to meet the Raven." He admits, "I look forward to doing so."

"Then I shall crown your day, Mathis. For he is to sup with us tonight."

The expression upon his face is quite heartwarming - though I am surprised to find that he seems to have been more keen to meet me than Cromwell.

There is sufficient space to accommodate more masters than I presently have, but those rooms which are to be occupied are well appointed, if not as magnificent as mine. Within two days, Bianchi has arrived, and has proved to be both very wise, and excellently good humoured - which leads me to conclude that he is likely to be of use to me as a mentor as much as a tutor for those who are to study with us. Thus I have largely assigned him the task of tutoring our eventual students in the history of the Order, the lives of the greatest Seconds who are no longer alive to speak to them directly, and the most appropriate means of securing material with which to undertake their work.

Vermeulen's apprentice, Paul, is also here now, having arrived alongside Bianchi. He has been billeted in the main house, and I intend to interview him to ascertain how far along he is in his training. I should loathe to require him to sit with mere beginners in this calling if he is already well advanced - so I am considering ensuring that we train him to a good standard, and then allow him to aid us in the teaching of his fellow students.

He is, to my surprise, quite shy - and almost keen to downplay his abilities. Vermeulen spoke quite glowingly of him, and I have spent enough time with my colleague to value his opinion, so I wonder if it is merely because he is speaking to me.

"I have been learning for a year, Sir." He says, quietly, "though there is still much for me to learn."

"I have been learning for more than ten years, Dicipulus," I smile at him, "And I think there is also still much for me to learn, too. We are always learning."

He nods, "I am not sure that I am as capable as you have been led to believe."

"I am not concerned about the past, Dicipulus - for I am sure that you are being modest. The very purpose of this establishment is to ensure that you are granted all the knowledge and skill that a good Second requires. No Second other than the late Cardinal Wolsey was trained to it - but the calling was not his; it was mine. I accepted that challenge without knowledge or training, and the burden of that was most painful. We have lost Seconds - good Seconds by all accounts - purely for their lack of knowledge and skill. I was nearly one of them more than once."

He looks less uncomfortable now, and I continue, "I fear that my own achievements have been rather over-told. Believe me, I have had many moments of sheer incompetence, foolishness, fear - even cowardice - that balance those achievements. Even when I knew much more than I did at the outset, that did not save me from errors."

"I am afraid that I might make such mistakes." Paul admits.

"I consider that to be my role as a tutor. Fear of making errors is almost as dangerous as making errors - for it causes us to be too afraid to make a decision. If we make a choice, and it proves to be wrong, then that is the way of the world, and we must learn to bear the consequences. But we must also be as well prepared as possible, so that - should we make such an error - it is not for want of careful thought beforehand. The most important thing is that we have done the best we can with the material available to us to inform our decision. It is not perfection that I aim to impart - for God knows that I have failed in such an endeavour for myself - but the importance of working with the information to hand, and trusting ourselves to do our best."

"Then I shall do so, Magister."

I shall have to get used to that.

* * *

As there are so few of us, there is little point in using the large hall for our meals, so we dine in my quarters for the moment. Signor Bianchi is, as I was told, most sprightly for a man of his years, and his sense of humour is remarkably impish. While he is far more knowledgeable than I could ever hope to be, his respect for me is startling; but, as I am regularly reminded, I found the Fires, and it was my work that enabled the Raven to destroy Lamashtu.

With that in mind, Cromwell has joined us this evening to sup, alongside Vaqué, and my collection of Seconds is being regaled with the remarkable adventures that these two great Silver Swords have experienced during their years of service. That Vaqué is a great Silver Sword is not in question - for no Grand Master has ever been appointed after being incompetent - and his exploits are also most exciting. As I have never been involved in them, I can enjoy them without any sense of discomfort, for none of those adventures led to any pain for me.

I am grateful, however, that Cromwell only relates our adventures in England, and says nothing of our journey to Milan, for I think I shall never be fully recovered from that. Even now, I am occasionally all but frozen with a sense of absolute horror, and there are even times when my memory betrays me and I find myself back in that dreadful state when I could not even remember who I was.

Bianchi is my greatest aid when such attacks strike me, for he recognises them for what they are - and always sends for Cromwell; who abandons his work immediately to come to me. While these incidents are quite rare now, they are still a present part of my life - and I think in some ways, that shall be as useful to my students as it is unpleasant for me. Bianchi knows of no other Second who has been harmed to the same degree - but that it is possible that it might happen. My recovery was thanks very much to the care and concern of my Silver Sword, albeit expedited by Wolsey and Chapuys, and proves above all that a close relationship with one's Silver Sword can be as worthwhile for the Second as the Silver Sword.

"Think of it as a useful lesson for your students, Richard." Bianchi advises, as Cromwell returns to his work and I sit beside my fire with a cup of warmed wine, "Our role is not merely to counsel our Silver Swords - but also to be a partnership of two. No Silver Sword has ever prospered by ignoring his Second - but the example of the Raven and his Second is one that shall be related to both the boys of the House, and those who shall pass through our care."

"Indeed so." I agree, still a little tired from the incident, "Now, all we need is the students."

* * *

I am seated at my desk, the light coming in from the garden warm and summery. The three men at the long table just across from me are equally busy, perusing a number of letters of recommendation from Masters at universities across Europe, and even beyond - I think one or two have even come from as far away as Damascus and Aleppo.

Bianchi has contacts all across the continent, it seems; and they have identified and recommended a remarkable number of young men who would do well in both research and discovery of facts - to the degree that they would prove to be excellent as both archivists and Seconds. My only disappointment is that, thanks to the use of the Universities as sources, there are no women listed. Molly would be most disappointed in me - not to mention Cassandra.

Small steps first, however. I need at least to begin teaching - which at the moment is not happening. Once we have proved our worth, I shall be in a stronger position to demand that women are included in the searches for new Seconds.

Durand has been with us now for just over two months, and the two Archivists that Bianchi recommended have been working in the Great Archive now for an equal amount of time. Needless to say, such is the disorder that this has proved to be only the smallest of gestures towards calming it - but their interest in the work is impressive. As I am also keen to uncover what lies hidden within that enormous collection, it is difficult to balance my time there with my responsibilities to the House. I have been a Second for so long now that it is hard to think in any other way.

Above all else, however, is my continued to commitment to my daughter, far away in England. Agnes writes to me regularly, telling me of all her doings - and I respond with as much of my own as I an safely tell her. As I have been hoping, Winifrede has engaged a tutor for her, and she is learning at an excellent pace.

In the main House, of course, life continues as it always does. The Hound and Ermine blades have been won, and the two new Silver Swords have begun their service as itinerants - one in France, the other in Eastern Europe. Before they departed, they spent time with Cromwell, who completed their training by advising them of the work of Court Silver Swords - men of whom they had previously known nothing.

As the Master of the Sister House, I find myself regularly invited to dine within the Main House - and I am regarded with extraordinary respect even by the Masters. Now that all is ready, Vaqué has decided to formally confirm me as the Master, and this, apparently, means that I shall be given formal robes to wear - and even the Masters shall be required to call me 'Magister' as they do Vaqué. As I could not countenance the idea of Cromwell referring to me so, I have already warned him that I shall sulk most fervently if he does. He laughed most heartily at me when I did so - for he, as I do, remembers a time when I would have been dreadfully puffed up with pride at such an elevation.

As all Masters wear a long, black tunic belted at the waist, I, too, have adopted that mode of dress, which feels most strange to me as it seems rather ecclesiastical. Over this is worn a black overgown that is not dissimilar to Cromwell's favourite wide-sleeved simarre. Vaqué's is trimmed with red, and mine with dark green - for I was granted the choice, and could not imagine any other than my favourite colour.

For formal occasions, however, the Praeceptors wear black robes of the same style trimmed with silver, while Vaqué's is red, trimmed with gold. Mine, which is yet to be worn, shall be dark green with gold, and today is the day that I shall be granted it.

I have broken my fast with bread and cheese, as I am surprisingly nervous of this evening's ceremony. From tomorrow, our first students shall arrive; and, thanks to Paul, we have established the curriculum, who shall teach it, and how each day shall be structured. They shall learn the history of the Order, the role of Seconds, Classical languages, Demonology and Archiving skills. I am still quite determined that they should learn how to defend themselves, and Vaqué has already enlisted the Master of Arms to provide such training if it is required. I suspect, however, that once they see Shadowsight, the students shall be eager to undertake it.

Bianchi and Durand have, between them, overseen the construction and furnishing of the dormitories, which have been separated into small sets of cubicles to offer a small degree of privacy for young men who shall have much study to undertake. A large space for such study, alongside a Library populated with works from the Archive, is also ready, while teaching rooms and the dining hall are prepared for the young men who shall be arriving over the next few days.

I have invited Cromwell to join me for the midday meal, and I am relieved that he has accepted. I am sufficiently aware of my own foibles to know that - were he being granted such honours - my pleasure would be tempered by envy. After all that we have done, for our friendship to founder over such a thing as my elevation to a higher estate than his would leave me most distraught. He is a better man than I, of course, and has always been; but I have seen friendships falter in such circumstances - and I do not think I could be so magnanimous. No - not 'think'; 'know'.

"Are you ready, Richie?" He asks, as Peter serves him slices of roasted pork, "Tomorrow shall herald a true new beginning - for the Order as much as for you."

"Shall you permit me to admit that I am terrified?"

"If you were not, then I should be most concerned." He smiles at me, "To enter into such a commitment without fear would suggest that you do not appreciate the magnitude of it. Until Wolsey was prepared for his task as a Second, no one had ever received any formal tuition in the work of the Second - and you found yourself that it was extremely difficult to take up the burden unprepared."

"Tell me of other things, Thomas." I plead, "I wish to think of other matters awhile."

"Willingly." Cromwell's smile widens, "I have heard from London. Edward and Elisabeth are now married by Proxy, and continue to show signs of making a good match together, for they have regular meetings now, and are most kindly disposed to one another. Queen Jane and Somerset are teaching him more responsibilities, and he is being granted more powers to make decisions for the future of England. Prince Hal is showing promise as a great diplomat, and it is planned that he shall become an Envoy for the King when he is of sufficient age."

"Truly? He seemed so unsuited for such a role." I have not forgotten how difficult he was, or how easily he could be offended.

"He has matured remarkably under the tutelage of the elder Dudley brothers, Richie; both of whom are also looking set for a diplomatic career. Ambrose has been in the Low Countries, where he has been negotiating treaties with the various states."

He stops then, and looks a little sad.

"What is it?"

"The news from Iberia is less good." He admits, "Queen Maria was lost to us in childbed six weeks ago. Her third child, a daughter, has survived her - but she succumbed to a fever three days after the birth."

I set down my knife, and sigh, "That is truly not good news. How is the King?"

"Grief-stricken." He says, "While she did her duty as a royal wife, granting him two sons and a daughter to continue his line, she was more to him than a mere brood mare - and her nation, as does her King, feels her loss most keenly. Queen Jane has already sent messages of condolence."

"What of the Lady Elizabeth?" I ask, as there seems to be little else to say.

"That is better news. Her marriage to the Hawk has proved to be a great success, and she has given him a son. Cecil is, he tells me, most relieved; for she is now absorbed in motherhood and no longer interferes in his work, or - perhaps, interferes _less_ in his work would be a more accurate statement."

"I doubt he would be brave enough to say that to her." I smile.

"And what of you?" Cromwell asks, then, "You have never been adept at hiding your feelings."

"Last night." I confess, "I dreamed myself back into that cell. When I awoke, it was several minutes before I could truly accept where I was."

He reaches out and rests his hand upon my arm, "The horror shall always be there, I think," I continue, "but it is less now than it was, and I am able to convince myself of my safety more easily. Though I must admit that I have forbidden Peter from assisting me to dress in the morning - for I cannot abide the thought that he might see the damage upon my back, and wonder what I did to be so punished."

He smiles, slightly, "I wondered why you look so dishevelled."

We spend the afternoon in the gardens, for I had - again - forgotten how easily Cromwell can sense my truest feelings. His perceptiveness has saved his life more than once, and kept me from going out of my mind in equal measure. What would I have become had I not found him before me that night in the offices? Would I even be alive?

I shall never know, of course - but I think it likely that I would not be; and thus I am grateful that I chose to save him rather than leave him to die. In spite of all that I have endured; given the choice to go back, I would have done exactly the same again.

* * *

I am not permitted to enter the Hall at the beginning of supper; but when I am finally admitted, I understand why, for all of the students are dressed in their formal tunics, while the Masters are in their formal robes. Even more embarrassingly, they all stand as I enter - and I am almost tempted to turn tail and flee. There would have been a time when such an occurrence would have caused me to become most puffed up with pride - but pride has led me into disaster enough times now to cause me to feel most awkward at such respect.

Vaqué is waiting for me, standing in front of the dais and holding those awaited green formal robes over his arms. To my relief, there is no foolish ceremony: instead, he speaks to the assembled Masters and Students, and speaks of his own experiences, and of his Second - a solidly intelligent man by the name of Gillaume with whom he stood against many demonic threats. To the students, the discovery that some of them shall be granted the aid of another is still quite new - and they are quite wrapt in their attention. His speech at an end, he smiles to me and invites me to rise from my chair.

As I approach, he bows to me, and I pause to bow in return. "Step forth and accept the task that has been set for you." he says, calmly, "We have disregarded the importance of Seconds for too long - and now that oversight is to be corrected. Thus you are appointed the Grand Master of the House of the Order of Seconds." Perhaps, in time, there shall be some form of vow of service to be spoken - but at this time, there is not. To my great relief, he merely sets the robes about my shoulders, and invites me to a chair at the table that is set to his right - for I am now a Grand Master, as he is. Until he bids us sit, and everyone breaks into applause - and I see that the most enthusiastic of that applause is Cromwell's.

I hope, then, that I am able to justify their pride in me. Tomorrow, I shall find out.

* * *

I cannot avoid it - there has been a remarkable change in how I am viewed by those around me now that Vaqué has formally set my robes upon me and confirmed me the first Grand Master of the Order of Seconds. I suppose I should be pleased - and once I would have been: I have no doubt that my head would have been horribly puffed up with pride - but now, I am singularly nervous.

To his credit, Cromwell has been no different in his treatment of me, and no one expects it of him, for we have been as brothers for so long now that it would seem odd to all if he treated me differently; but where the students were once deferential, now they bow respectfully if I am traversing the corridors of the House, while the Masters are formally deferential.

I have already pleaded with my own colleagues to eschew such formality - for we are all Seconds who have served in the Courts and, in fairness, they have largely complied. Our dinners are still convivial, and we discuss all manner of political issues that are reported to us by the Master of the Spies, as he insists that all information is passed to me as well as to him. As our students shall not be required to undertake a dangerous sequence of Trials to graduate, it is best that they know as much as they can about the political world in which they shall work _before_ they enter it.

Tonight, however, they are supping without me, for Vaqué has invited me to sup privately in his quarters. Tomorrow, the first of our students shall begin arriving, and I am grateful for a last evening of freedom from responsibility. I am equally grateful that there are three of us at the table, for while I have certainly struck up a good friendship with the Grand Master, I am still slightly uncomfortable in his presence.

Cromwell is always amused by my difficulties with that remarkable innovation in dining - a pronged utensil that Vaqué calls a _forchetta_ , which even I now know means 'fork'. Being used to the simpler requirements of hand and knife, I am regularly embarrassed at my failure to spear something with it, or to have whatever I had speared with it fall back to the plate again. Usually resulting in an unsightly splatter of gravy upon my garments. I shall get used to it, I suppose; though I have only myself to blame as I tend to abandon it when I am alone, so I still struggle with it.

Our meal tonight is an excellent beef stew in a sauce thick with wine and onions over more of that fine corn porridge for which I have certainly developed a real liking. Thus I can abandon the wretched forchetta and resort to a spoon instead.

"How many students are to arrive tomorrow, Richie?" Cromwell asks. As we are in private, he is free to refer to me so informally - though even in public he has not yet called me 'Magister', and I wouldn't want him to.

"Eight, I hope. Some may be delayed if there are difficulties on the roads. I do not intend to begin teaching until all have arrived - those who arrive first shall spend time learning their way around the House - and shall be expected to aid their brothers when they reach us."

Vaqué nods, "A small number - that is wise, I think. Places for Seconds do not arise frequently."

"It is my hope that the graduates who are best suited to the task can spend their first years of service alongside a serving Second." I add, "While some are better at imparting their knowledge than others, there is no substitute for experience. If that can be gained while being mentored, as would be the case when a Second is apprenticed, then all shall be served well by it."

"That is most sensible. I have received communications from across the Courts expressing relief that the requirement to seek out and train apprentices has been taken back by the Order. It is hard to teach a student when the learning one is attempting to impart is so rife with danger."

"And the risk of dangerous errors higher." I add, "I have made mistakes that could have killed Thomas - and myself; better to learn from them _before_ one is in the field."

Cromwell nods, sagely, "I have told you before that Wolsey erred frequently while he was being prepared to become my Second - and so grievously on one occasion that, had I been in his care, then I would certainly have paid for it with my life. Fortunately, I was not - but it is a cruel burden to place upon a man. For such dread outcomes to rest upon a single decision is a heavy weight to carry."

As I know full well.

* * *

We emerge from the Master's parlour together and make our way out into the gardens in the fading light of the day. Summer is nearly at an end, but the sky above us is still quite bright, and a thin sliver of a crescent moon is visible in the western sky. Cromwell's arm is about my shoulders, for he can tell that I am fearful again. I have no idea how it is that he can tell when my fears crowd in upon me - but I am grateful for that ability, for the horrors are nipping at my heels like a hungry terrier.

"I am not ready for this." I admit, quietly, "Even when I am sure that all is prepared, I fear that I am not the man for this task - that there is someone better; someone more worthy."

"You are travelling an unknown path, Richie," He reminds me, "We have never admitted young men within these walls for any purpose other than to become Silver Swords. That we have failed to establish training for those who must work alongside them is a grievous oversight, but one that none have thought to address before. It shall not be easy - that I grant you - but you have overcome challenges and brutal experiences that would fell a lesser man."

"I was once a 'lesser' man." I remind him, "Had I not been changed by my experiences as a Second, I can assure you that I would have twisted, turned, lied and perjured myself to escape the toils of Campofregoso's plot against us - and would have abandoned you to your death."

"It is also a measure of how far you have come that you recognise that."

"Perhaps." I wish I could convince myself that I am no longer so craven - once, I think I had. But then a demon with a high-pitched voice tore into my mind and threw all to confusion. I have emerged from that: I know that I have - but nonetheless, it has left me with that lingering uncertainty that there is a place for me in heaven when my time comes. Have I cleansed that stain? Is my sin still a weight that shall pull me into the worst recesses of hell? Oh God…

Cromwell grasps my shoulders and turns me to face him, as my breathing is quickening in fear, "Easy now. This shall pass - as it always does. Here - breathe with me." And, just as he did when I first felt that dreadful anxiety in the house of Lamashtu, he breathes in, holds, breathes out. After a considerable struggle, I begin to do the same, and the waves of horror start to ebb away again as I regain control.

"You are the right man for this, Richie." He says, firmly, sincerely, "God knows that I have done dreadful things in my service to the Mission - and I, too, have been struck with the force of guilt by one who wished to use it against me. Trust in God - trust in _yourself_. The craven man that you once were was left in the offices of Hampton Court when you first stood to follow me from there to the tiltyard in the early light of morning. I saw the potential in you to become a good Second - and you have never, at any time, shown me to have been anything other than right."

"Forgive me, Thomas. It is naught but my fears talking. I am as prepared as I can be - readiness is another matter. But when the first of our new intake of Seconds arrive tomorrow, they shall see a man who is ready for them."

"Even if he is but an actor upon a grand stage?" Cromwell smiles.

"A better actor than Phineas Brownstone. I can assure you."

* * *

I am seated comfortably in a chair, looking out through the wide windows of my main chamber. To say that I am tired is truly the greatest of understatements, for today has been a long, long day.

Peter has carefully hung my formal robes in the closet, and set a pewter pitcher of wine alongside two glasses. It is not long before Cromwell arrives, "So, how went the first day?"

"I am not sure." I admit, "So much happened, that I am at a loss as to how to think through it all. All but two of the students have reached us, while I have received word that the remainder are spending the night at the Dovecote, as they arrived almost too late to enter the City, and found it first in these unfamiliar streets. They shall be here tomorrow, and we shall see to their accommodation alongside those who are already here."

I am grateful to sit back and talk through the day that has passed; greeting the youths each in turn in my study, working with Bianchi to assign them to their billets and returning to those letters of recommendation to ascertain what must be taught before all are able to learn from the same starting point. They are all considered to be academically excellent, with sharp minds and a will to learn. As of this moment, they know very little of what lies ahead for them, but even on the basis of my initial meetings with them, I am beginning to see who shall work well as Seconds, and who are best suited to the altogether more vital work as Archivists. I know from my own experience that a Second is only as good as the information he has to hand.

"Has your sword spoken to you recently, Richie?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, "All seems most quiet - and that is something to which I am most unused."

I shake my head, "Not overtly - though there is a constant presence inside my mind that is remarkably comforting, and I am sure that I would be most bereft were I to lose it." I look up to the overmantel, where it has been carefully mounted, "I have no doubt that, should the need arise, I shall hear its voice again."

I think, though, that the greatest purpose of my bond with Shadowsight is done - for without it, we would have been helpless against Eligos. It has protected me from deception by demons, come to my aid at my call and kept me from death more times than I can count. Even now, I still struggle to comprehend the suggestion that it was forged to be handed to me. Did it know? I have often wondered if it has a will of its own - for that story of the man from Palmyra spoke of magics woven into the silver and steel of its forging. How strange that I speak that word without a flicker of disbelief - for my upbringing saw 'magic' as mere trickery - but what else can it be? Cassandra might have been able to explain it to me, but she is long gone, and even Wolsey is now beyond my reach.

After some weeks, I begin to feel that we are settling everything into place more completely. While there are but eight students, they are all sharp, capable and quick to learn. Some are more well trained than others, but all have various gaps in their knowledge that others possess, and thus there is a fortuitous balancing out of additional tuition to plug those gaps. I do not find myself teaching them as often as I should like - for there are other matters that occupy my attention; primarily the work of a number of archivists that Bianchi has managed to secure for me, as well as the day-to-day _minutiae_ involved in operating the entire enterprise.

Vaqué is always a great mentor to me in such matters, and our meetings continue on a regular basis, but I find - as I have always done - that the day is not complete unless I have supped with Cromwell, or at least shared a cup or two of mulled wine as the evening draws to a close. It reminds me of those times when we hunted, and returned to his apartments afterwards for hippocras before I returned to my own apartments to retire for the night.

"You were right, Richie." he smiles, one evening, as we sit beside the fire in my parlour. The weather without is most chill as Christmastide approaches, and we are both grateful for those crackling flames - though I find even now that I am not able to get too close to them, "I seem - at last - to have shed my unwanted status as a demi-god, and I think now that the young men I teach are able to take in my words."

Much of his work involves tuition upon matters political, and he has a wealth of experience to draw upon that is both instructive, and interesting. While I am not present in the house to know of it, Bianchi has known several of the other Masters for many years, and he relays their complimentary comments to me, which I find most pleasing to hear. It was not only I who was obliged to make something of a leap of faith in coming to this place - for he, too, could not be sure that he would be a capable or successful teacher.

In spite of the time that has passed since we arrived, I still find myself with a sense of novelty at my situation. There are no plots here; no factions and none of that petty manoeuvring that caused so much strife when we worked in the English Court. There are arguments, of course - fights and quarrels that are only to be expected when groups of young men are in close proximity to one another - but they are limited, and resolving them becomes another lesson in the art of diplomacy that is so essential when one is installed in a royal court.

"Do you miss it, Tom?" I ask, suddenly, "The challenges we used to face at the Council table?"

He thinks awhile, "In some ways, yes - for I derived great pleasure from solving intractable problems; but in others, no. Despite my appearance, I am still a man of considerable age, and I am grateful to be free of the threat of being destroyed by another who looks to steal all that I have gained. Besides, it is an equal pleasure to hand on what I have learned to those who shall follow. I have not forgotten that night when I found I could not move and was nearly bested by a ravener. Again, I miss the exhilaration of the hunt - but I most assuredly do not miss the concern that I might find myself equally helpless in my next fight, or the next, or the next. No man lives eternally, and I wish to ensure that my knowledge is shared before I depart this world and enter the next."

He smiles, then, and sits back in his chair with a clear air of satisfaction, "I think we have earned our rest, Richie - but I know without a doubt that, of all that I gained in my life when I took up my swords, the greatest was my friendship with you. I fear that I should have died a long time past, of sheer foolishness in attempting to work alone. Instead, I sit in this fine parlour with a truly dear friend, and celebrate what we have done together, and all who live now who might otherwise have died."

I find such comments amusing rather than distressing these days, for my fears of our separation stemmed from the belief that I would be obliged to remain in England while he departed - and thus I should truly have been bereft. Instead I raise my cup of wine and open my mouth to offer a cheerful riposte - only to be stopped by the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside - followed by a sharp knocking upon the chamber door, which is thrust open before Peter can reach it. The man who enters is dressed in the robes of a Master, and I have seen him in the refectory, though I have never been able to remember the names of them all. He is flushed from running, and his expression speaks of a dire occurrence.

"Magister," He nods to me briefly, "Forgive my intrusion - Raven, you must return to the House. The High has been taken ill, and is sinking fast. We think it to be some congestion of the heart."

Cromwell is immediately on his feet, "Come, Richie, you are also a Grand Master, and should be present."

I am not sure that I want to be, but I do not ignore the summons and Peter flees back to the closet to retrieve my black robe with green trim.

All of the Masters are gathered when we arrive, waiting in silence in the outer parlour. To my surprise, they all give way to Cromwell and I, though it seems that only I am permitted to enter the rooms beyond - for I am the equal of the man within.

The foremost of the Order's physicians is leaning over the great tester bed in Vaqué's ornate bedchamber, while another is measuring some fluid or other from a glass bottle into a small cup. Both look up at my arrival, but do not object; instead, they stand aside and the senior physician indicates that I approach.

Even to me, it is obvious that the Grand Master is dying, for he is insensible, and his breathing growing weak. While it is not unknown for a Master to linger, I assume it is equally expected for a death to be sudden, as this most certainly shall be. Would he have prepared for this? Is there a declaration of his final wishes? I cannot begin to know.

Nearby is a short, club-footed man who has served as the Secretary to the Grand Master for the best part of forty years. I see him so rarely that I cannot for the life of me recall his name, but I can see that he holds a leather wallet in his hands, perhaps in the hope that his master shall awaken - if only briefly - to approve whatever papers lie within.

"I do not expect him to awaken, Magister." He says, after a while, "He began to experience pains in his chest at supper, but assumed it to be indigestion. It was only when he returned to his chambers that he was felled by a greater pain. I have seen it before - unless God grants us a miracle, he shall not see the dawn."

"What is to be done?" I ask, quietly.

"I shall speak to the Masters." He says, "It is not the decision of the High who shall follow him. That is the choice of the Masters, who must nominate and elect one of their own to do so. When they go into seclusion to do so is dependent upon expectations as to when the High shall pass away. As we expect that to occur tonight, they shall remain present here before doing so."

Despite my elevated status, I feel like an intruder, for I am not a man steeped in the traditions and practices of the Order. I have been assured that I am required to be present, according to Vaqué's own decree; but nonetheless, I find myself most uncomfortable that I am present, but long serving Masters are not. Jesu - as though today has not been long enough…

The Secretary, whose name I have still been too shy to seek out, has fetched a chair for me, and I seat myself far enough back to give the physicians room to work, but not so far away that I appear to be disinterested. As the minutes tick by, it could not be more clear to us that there is little worth in their activities, for they can do nothing other than supply cordials - and Vaqué is not conscious to imbibe them. They know it, as do we - but their service to the House requires them to try all that they can, and so they do.

It is in the first hour after midnight that I rouse myself from a slight doze to see the physicians carrying out those same tests that were applied to King Henry at the moment of his passing, and I know that the wait is at an end. The Order's Christian Chaplain, who had been summoned from his home in the city, has been unable to offer the ceremony of Viaticum, but does what he can over the body, while the Secretary steps out to inform the gathered Masters that they must withdraw into seclusion and select a successor.

By the time I emerge from the chambers, the outer parlour is empty. It seems that the death of a Grand Master is announced to the House by his successor, so the young men who saw Vaqué withdraw in some pain yesterday evening shall not know until this morning, or perhaps later, that he is no more. That said, if there are no Masters present when they come into the Refectory to break their fast, they shall almost certainly guess for themselves.

Being at a loose end now, I ask the Secretary to summon me when the successor has been selected, as I have no part to play in the discussions to come. He nods, solemnly, "I am advised, Magister, that you shall be the first man to greet the new High. Thus I shall send one of the Praeceptors to fetch you when it is time."

Thank God for that - I am utterly exhausted and long only to sleep. I do not envy the gathering of men who must now sit up for as long as it takes to select the man who shall lead them, while I retreat to my quarters and lay myself down upon a sofa to snatch at least a little rest. Unless there is a great deal of contention over who shall be the next Grand Master, there seems little point in retiring to bed.

* * *

Dawn has broken as I am gently shaken awake and find Peter standing over me, my formal robe draped over his arm, "The decision is made, Magister. A Praeceptor is without to escort you back to the House."

He helps me into the formal garment as I try rather desperately to scrape my hair into some sort of order, and I emerge from my quarters to find one of the Language Masters waiting to meet me. I know then who the Grand Master shall be - for he has not come to escort me.

Nonetheless, I do not ask the outcome; though I suspect that my escort knows that I have worked it out for myself, as he says nothing - though a mild smile plays round the corners of his mouth. We were a David and Jonathan in the Tudor Court, and so again are we in the House.

I am shown into the inner Parlour, where I first met the late Magister Vaqué, to find the room rather crowded. The Chaplain is there, but also the Order's Rabbi, and the Imam - who tend to our Jewish and Muslim students when we have them - and the remaining Masters, who are all dressed as formally as I. Only one amongst them is not wearing formal robes, for he has yet to receive them.

I am most pleased as I bow formally to the new Grand Master, "Magister."

As I look up, however, I see for the first time that I can ever recall that Cromwell is nervous. Almost as fearful as I was when first granted such an honour as this. Ah well - I have been where he is, so it seems that now the Raven shall wear red - and this time it is the Second who shall be the mentor.

* * *

 **A/N the Second:** Come on - who _didn't_ see that coming? ;-)


	37. Fratres in Armis

**A/N:** I have no idea if the latin I've used for the title is correct - but it sounds awesome, so there we are...

And some gaps in Rich's knowledge are shortly to be filled in!

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven

 _Fratres in Armis_

Peter carefully adjusts the formal robes as he sets them about my shoulders, while I check my appearance in a looking glass. When I departed England, I never imagined that such at thing as this would happen. I saw myself as a mere teacher, rather than a man granted the title of 'Magister' and revered as the equal of the Grand Master of the Order of the Silver Swords. Perhaps I assumed that Cromwell would achieve such heights - even if I never saw that for myself; but to know that he has indeed done so is still sinking in. If I am astonished at this outcome, then I cannot imagine how Cromwell himself must be feeling.

I have not seen him since we broke our fast two days back - and he broke the news to the students, for he has been in seclusion with that Secretary, who I now remember is called Eduardo, since that time. There is much for him to learn, it appears, as the Order is steeped in tradition and custom - but also the most remarkably small things - such as the requirement for him to say Grace before each meal in three languages: Latin, Hebrew and Arabic - a tongue of which we know nothing in England at all.

Eduardo did visit me this morning, however, to give me a letter, which now rests upon the table before me.

 _My dear Richie_

 _Forgive my failure to visit you over the last few days; it is the custom that, following his announcement of the passing of his predecessor, the High that Shall Be goes into seclusion until his investiture. There is much for me to learn - things that are the sole knowledge of the High and his Secretary, and no other - and I have a scant three days to learn them. I do not think that I shall be overly challenged by such a task, for my memory is as good as it has always been; but I miss your counsel and support as I take my first steps into a new world. I think, now, that I understand more the leap into the dark that stretched before you when you agreed to leave England and travel at my side._

 _The High that Was left no spoken instructions, but he was a man of wisdom and great foresight, and set down his requirements in writing a few weeks after our arrival. He has set out instructions for the investiture of his successor, and has decreed that you shall play a part in what is to come - for you are the equal of the one who is to be invested, and he believed that no Silver Sword should think a Second to be less than he. His instructions are in the paper that accompanies my letter. Mark them well, for there shall be no opportunity for either of us to undertake any form of rehearsal. We shall be guided by Eduardo, and Father Fischer; and hope and pray that we make no mistakes._

 _I think it likely that you foresaw such an honour for me - even if Shadowsight did not forewarn you; though I must confess that I saw it not. Perhaps you think me dishonest in such a claim - but it was never my expectation or plan to return here with the aim of becoming Grand Master. I watched you receive that honour, and rejoiced for you - considering it a just reward for all that you have become, and all that you have endured and overcome - but I never thought to seek such an honour for myself._

 _It is my intention that we shall sup together at the first opportunity after the investiture is over, and that we shall work together as we have always done - no longer Silver Sword and Second, but as absolute equals. As the High that Was has determined, the time for seeing Seconds as mere helpers is done. You have proved the need for that more than any - and so we shall ensure that all know of the work of Seconds, whether they enter the Courts or not._

 _You shall see from the note that you must present yourself in your formal attire in the Great Hall a quarter hour before the seventh after noon this day. Father Fischer shall direct you upon where you shall be seated, and answer any questions you have over what you must do. I shall see you then - and I ask you to pray for my foolish, quavering heart - for I look upon what is to come with equal excitement and dread. Excitement at the opportunity to bring forth young men who are equal to the task of protecting this world from infernal horrors, and dread at the prospect of doing so also. Most contrary, I fear!_

 _I think it right to tell you that I could not have achieved this without you, my friend. Your companionship, friendship and trust has supported me as equally as the knowledge that you have uncovered to aid me. For that, I shall always be grateful - and I hope that we shall continue to stand together until God calls us home._

 _I shall see you this evening - and we shall take our first steps together into a new world. Another one. Are there any more left for us to discover, other than that last, great undiscovered realm? Perhaps - perhaps not. But with you at my side, Richie, I shall be more than ready to face them._

 _Yours ever,_

 _Thomas._

"I think you are prepared, Magister." Peter says, brushing a last strand of errant thread from one of my sleeves. He turns then at the sound of a knock upon the door, "I think your escort is here."

"Then we are finished not a moment too soon." I agree, half cheerful, half fearful. I have no idea what is to come other than the written instructions - which I have now committed to memory as best I can. One of the Masters is without, dressed in his formal robes of black with silver piping, and he bows courteously as I emerge, "Follow me, Magister. Father Fischer is awaiting you."

When I arrive at the Great Hall, the enormous space is empty but for the Chaplain, who is conversing genially with Rabbi Crescas and Imam Amrani. It is strange to see them so - for I am used to an atmosphere of religious strife; but, as the ability to sense ichor is not restricted exclusively to those of the Christian faith, neither is the pastoral care extended to the students. All three men are learned and kindly - and I have found them all to be equally helpful to me on the rare occasions when I have been struck by my bad memories, but Cromwell has not been free to come to me.

All of them attend an investiture - but the leader of the ceremony is the one who shares the faith of the High that Shall Be. Today it shall be Fischer - but the Grand Master prior to Vaqué was Jewish, so Rabbi Crescas oversaw his investiture.

"Be seated, Magister," Fischer smiles, indicating a finely upholstered chair on the dais - which has been cleared of the usual trestles. It is to the right of another, which is of equal decoration and height. I was not obliged to undertake much in the way of ceremony when Vaqué granted me my robes - but that shall not be the case with Cromwell. Though I think that much of the ceremony that involves me shall be to replace that lack of a formal confirmation of my state.

Fischer departs, and the rest of the Masters are drifting in, each bowing formally to me in turn before seating themselves in the ranks of chairs either side. Six to the right, and six to the left - though one shall be empty now, for its occupant shall be vacating it to sit beside me.

As they do so, I remain astonished that they show no resentment at being required to bow to a Second. While Cromwell has stated his intent to ensure that the term 'second' is used in name only, I have never been able to think of myself in any other way - and I am still attempting to accept that I am truly the equal of a Silver Sword. But we Seconds are vital - without us, our Silver Swords are blind, and who else can they turn to when their burden becomes too heavy?

I am interrupted from my musings by the sound of the students filing in. We are all seated - but they remain standing as they reach the benches upon which they shall sit in due course. As there is - at present - no invested Grand Master, the one who once presided over the students was the eldest of the Praeceptors; but now it is to be me, for I am a Grand Master.

I have never been so nervous in all of my life.

* * *

While I have no words to speak, for that shall be the work of Fischer, Vaqué determined before he passed that it would be the role of a Grand Master to set the robes upon another. As he set my robes upon me, so I shall do the same for Cromwell. It seems so strange to me - for I have always been in his shadow, and willingly so. For this brief time, I am greater than he, and I am unused to such a thing as this.

The door at the rear of the hall opens, and Fischer returns, Cromwell in his wake. As he has done since we arrived here, he wears that black, floor length tunic, but the robes that shall be granted to him are here, beside me. They have been made specifically for him, as those worn by Vaqué are now dressing his body - awaiting burial tomorrow.

The words of the ceremony are in Latin, regardless of the faith of the new Grand Master, and are clearly of great antiquity, as befits the age of the Order. Cromwell swears to uphold the values of the Order, to protect mankind from the cruelty of demon-kind, and to serve the Masters and Students to the best of his ability. Throughout, it is made clear that the Grand Master is as much a servant as a master, and there is no mistaking his sincerity as he speaks those ancient words.

Fischer calls upon God to bless the new Grand Master, and support him in his first days of his new responsibility. This done, the Chaplain turns to me, and I step forth with the grand, red robes. Amrani assists me in setting them about Cromwell's shoulders, but he seems quite at ease, and I am hard put not to snort with laughter when he winks at me as I carefully arrange the draping at the front.

He turns to the assembled students, as they sit - their collective descent to the benches causing a remarkable rumbling and scraping sound of bench legs. Now that he is invested as Grand Master, he must address the assembly for the first time; though he is not obliged to do so in Latin, for the tradition is that a Grand Master makes this address in his mother tongue.

The first thing he does, however, seems to be quite unprecedented, as he bows to the young men before him, "I am your humble servant, and I thank you this great honour. I am used to service, and I shall continue to serve the Order as I once served Kings - with my fullest determination and all the skill at my command.

"The world in which we live is changing, as men of lesser means become more able to stand with those of high estate; for those who see their privileges undermined shall fight against it, and what demon would allow such an opportunity to pass by? You are at the forefront of a great war that has been fought since the first of the Crusades - and shall not end until our Lord returns. It is my task to stand with you, and with my fellow Masters, against that darkness. All of you know of all that I have done - and perhaps it might seem that no demon could rise against man again; but that is not so. You are as vital to the work of the Order as any other who has walked these halls, and I swear to you that I shall do all that I can to prove myself worthy of your faith in me."

Then he turns, and stretches out his hand to me, calling me forth to stand beside him, and I am embarrassed once more as he directs those present to turn their applause as much in my direction as his. But it is done - Cromwell is now the Grand Master of the Order of the Silver swords - and, as I have done these ten years past, I stand beside him.

* * *

It comes as no surprise to me that the first change that Cromwell institutes is that we dine together every day. While I sup with my masters and students in the evening, as he does with his, it seems important to him that some things that have been at the core of our time together remain intact.

"I want to ensure that the work of the High that Was in teaching the young men of the Order the value of Seconds continues and is improved." He says as Bernhard, his new manservant, serves us slices carved from an excellent haunch of venison, "But I am wondering if it might be worthwhile establishing a new rank of Second to work out of the Dovecotes and support the Itinerants, for they have always been obliged to rely upon the spies to aid them. While they have always offered the very best of their service, they have other tasks to perform."

Given the progress of the young men under my care, the same thought had been upon my mind for some considerable time, though I had not been sure of the best means to broach it, "Speaking with honesty, Tom, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. The men of the universities sent us a company of excellent minds and, while some are certainly well suited to work as Court Seconds, others would be equally useful as Seconds - but there are no Courts to which I could dispatch them. Only two show a keenness to become archivists."

He smiles, "Are you sure that that is not thanks to your reputation as a swordsman at my side?"

"I am not entirely sure;" I admit, "though I take great pains to remind them that my adventuring at your side was always the exception to the life of a Second, and not the rule. Nonetheless, they value the weapons and combat training that they receive - and those who I think are most likely to enter Courts could well be most able should they be called upon to defend themselves from a ravener."

I look up, and I realise that he is looking at me again, "And what of you?" he asks.

He is not blind - he can see that my eyes are shadowed again, and he has been obliged to come to my presence twice in the last few weeks as my horrors have felled me. I cannot fathom how it is that, of all the unpleasant experiences I have endured in my life, this one remains so strongly tied to me - but then, nothing that came before it ever touched the depths to which I was dragged by Leraje and those who served him. They hurt and humiliated me to a degree that I had never known before - dressed only in that vile smock that grew more and more foul as the days passed, and that ghastly sense of vulnerability as it was removed to bare my back for the lash. I recall how my experiences with Zaebos haunted me for nearly a year after we destroyed him - until I confronted those memories and set them aside in the midst of a far greater enterprise. Perhaps I have a predisposition to brood over painful experiences - for even now, though the best part of a year has passed since I was freed from that stake, I still do so.

"I think it seems closer today, for a year has passed since it happened." I admit, "Of all the vile things that were done to me, the worst was that dreadful violation of my mind - and I wonder if that is why I still find myself struck by the memories of it. I have endured violence against my body more than once - and though I am marked by the remnants of the wounds, they have healed. But my mind? That is another matter - for it had never occurred to me that such a thing could happen; and, for a time, I was convinced that I was going mad."

He rests his hand upon my arm, his eyes sympathetic. Even his worst experiences as a Silver Sword cannot touch what I have suffered, but I am sure that the reason for my relapse is purely the time of year, so I make myself smile at him, "Thank you for your concern - it is truly appreciated; but I think that, now that a year has passed, that sense of fear shall begin to recede more thoroughly. Besides, as we have so much to do, I think I shall be too busy to brood upon it."

"That is my intention." Cromwell agrees, reaching for his claret, "I have already asked the spies to send through reports of their observations of the common folk in the countries they serve. That class of men who have made their own fortunes is growing, and they shall demand a share of the power held by those of Landed wealth; and eventually those who have less still shall wish for theirs, too. I should rather we knew of it beforehand, than be obliged to counter a demonic response to an outbreak of political chaos."

"Do you anticipate resistance?" Given the traditions of the Order, I cannot help but wonder if the Masters might find Cromwell's reforms to be inappropriate.

"I think not - for most of the Masters have either served at Courts, or are well aware that we cannot ignore the changes that are becoming apparent. I noticed before the High that Was passed, that there were thoughts to move in such a direction as this - so I think I shall not be herding them, so much as leading them." He smiles, then, "Though, given that nearly a month has passed since I took up this calling, I think I am not so sure as I sound."

* * *

In the weeks since his investiture, Cromwell has certainly made a number of changes - particularly in relation to the completion of the final Trial. While no student has been foolish enough to attempt to emulate his feat of climbing the outside of the great Tower, he has emphasised that his behaviour was dangerous and extremely stupid - and, as it cost Joachim his life, any who attempt it henceforth shall fail the Trial.

He has also taken to meeting each student personally on a regular basis. Though he has not elaborated upon it to me, for its confidentiality is such that only the Grand Master is permitted to know it, the means that were set in place to ensure the silence of failed students is a spoken phrase that is imparted to the student prior to their departure. I had assumed - wrongly - that Cassandra had created this protection, but instead it has existed from the very day that the House accepted students for the first time, courtesy of a Jewish mystic who went on to become the first Grand Master. As soon as the gates are closed behind them, they forget the House, and all that they experienced there - and the gates are, to them, no more than the gates of a Seminary that they happen to be alongside as they decide that they should return to their home. Thus all students regard a summons to the chambers of the High with great trepidation, so he has decided to invite them into his outer parlour to discuss their progress several times a year, rather than reserve such a visit for one purpose alone. It is now that I learn how it was that the vile Campofregoso recalled the House despite his own failure: he departed in a state of high dudgeon without visiting the Grand Master - and thus never heard that final statement that would have kept us safe from him.

In addition, Cromwell visits my students each month to deliver a lecture about the life of a Court Silver Sword. While I can speak of the work of a Second, I have no such expertise; and I know from their wrapt expressions that Vermeulen, Bianchi and Durand are as enthralled as the boys. They are all learning well, though I think it shall be at least another year before they are ready to serve - and I intend for them to apprentice to the serving Second that they are to replace, as no amount of tuition can ever prepare one for the reality of our calling.

I think, now that I look upon it, that I have never been happier than I am now. I am respected, I serve an Order of men that works to protect all from the horrors of demon-kind, and I am still in partnership with the dearest friend I have ever known. It is likely that, had we not experienced that remarkable rejuvenation thanks to the light that emerged from the Jerusalem Chalice, I would be mourning Cromwell by now; but instead we continue to work together, and our Mission continues - albeit changed somewhat from our times of hunting in the Palaces of Henry's Court.

Agnes continues to write to me regularly, and her writing continues to improve in both tidiness and content. Her letters are always present amongst communications from Cecil, which keeps us apprised of matters in the English Court. Reports from across Europe speak of a true movement towards peace between nations, and I have never felt so assured that we are finally emerging from that hideous danger that came so close to destroying the world that we know.

That night, however, the dream that I have convinces me to think otherwise.

* * *

Cromwell's expression is grave as he watches my tremblings, "Fire? That must have been hard for you."

"Not so much for me, Tom - more for what it was burning. I saw the halls of the House aflame - with all who reside within locked inside. I saw the boys in flames - I saw _you_ in flames…" I stop speaking, shuddering in horror.

"A warning from Shadowsight, I take it?"

"It can be nothing else."

"They cannot act without our preventing it - so now they intend to act against us directly."

I nod.

"Then it is as well that you and I have found ourselves here at a time when we are most needed. But for you, and your bond with your sword, we would know nothing of this."

"The risk is not amongst demons." I find words emerging from my mouth again - that has not happened in a long time, "Look to the Church."

Cromwell's eyes widen, "The Church is moving against us?"

"A charismatic voice, speaking against the faith-blind." And then it is gone again, "Forgive me, Tom. If I cannot articulate the danger specifically, Shadowsight speaks through me."

"I recall that from our fight against Eligos." Cromwell nods, "That makes sense, Richie: there is a newly appointed Cardinal recently arrived from Rome. The assessment amongst older and wiser heads is that he is both ambitious, and keen to accumulate fame and power, and what better way than to uncover a perceived nest of heretics?"

"Jews and Mohammedans within the walls of a Seminary." I add.

"I had thought that his ambition might be curbed by Archbishop Borromeo; for all his devotion to curbing the reformation, he remains devoted to his faith and appreciates the dangers that face mankind to the point that he knows of, and accepts, us. But it seems not."

"What is his name?" I ask, "If I know it, I can set Bianchi to work on making enquiries about him."

"Abramo Faraldo." Cromwell supplies, "He is Genoese, but there is little information about his background - his rise seems to have been remarkable."

"Perhaps he is highly talented?"

"It is stated that he is - but nonetheless his apparent keenness to make his mark is his true danger, and that is what we must take steps to counter. If there is a demon involved, I think it more than likely that it is taking advantage of his ambition and he knows nothing of it. If there is, and we can expose it, then there is hope that we shall check his ambition before it becomes too dangerous."

"To all; not just to us." I add.

I return to my study deep in thought. There is nothing in my mind that suggests infernal involvement - and indeed we were brought closest to our destruction not by a demon, but by politics. I know from my own experience that ambition to attain political greatness leaves much misery in its wake - for I was as guilty of it as any other when first I entered service to King Henry. Certainly there shall be an opening for demons to exploit should Faraldo succeed in his aim to 'cleanse' the seminary of 'heretics' - but the primary threat to us is the man himself. The consequences that shall follow shall be borne by others. He sees only glory as a destroyer of the unfaithful - and has not the first inkling that his first act shall likely cause men to curse his name for all time as they are crushed to nothing by the infernal forces that shall be free to rise unchecked. Our army may be small, but it is strong and knowledgeable - and that is our best defence.

Shadowsight remains mounted on the overmantel of my great fireplace, where a good fire is set to counter the growing chill as winter encroaches upon us. Bianchi is waiting for me, as I sent for him when I left Cromwell's study, and his expression is as grave as Cromwell's was when I tell him of the new threat that faces us.

"How strange that Cassandra's incantations to divert the Clergy from our doors have not quelled his intentions." He says, "He must be singularly ambitious if he has been able to overcome them."

"You do not think it to be the interference of an infernal power?"

"It could be - but we are often quick to blame a demon rather than seek a simpler explanation. Only God is truly omniscient - demons most certainly are not." He smiles, "Though I think it would not go amiss to dispatch an Itinerant into his presence."

"It would also be helpful to know more about this man." I add.

"I shall get to work upon it at once." Bianchi chuckles.

As he is now engaged elsewhere, it falls to me to take his classes. While I cannot hope to match him in knowledge, the young men that sit before me are always eager to hear stories of my life in the Court, and their enjoyment of my exploits is heartening. Today, however, my concern is to warn them of the dangers that they might face. Again, I have only my own experiences to use - but they are uncomfortably numerous, and I have taken time to learn of the fates of those of our calling who were felled in service.

Despite my intention, however, I am still unable to speak of my ordeal in Luzern, which remains unrelated. I justify my silence on the grounds that it occurred when I was no longer serving in a Court; and as none have seen the state of my back, and never shall, I am not at risk of unexpected questions. The fact that I was stabbed and left to die is unnerving enough for them, I think. Though I am careful to temper that with altogether more exciting tales of adventuring - for some of them seem to have gone quite pale.

Lessons done for the day, I return to Cromwell's study to discuss the matter further. Bianchi has not found it difficult to accumulate the information that we require, as he knows the right people to ask, and Cromwell peruses it with a mild frown, "There is nothing here to suggest anything other than straight ambition, Richie."

"That was my thought. While his rise was indeed fast, it was not abnormally so. He is of good family, with strong connections in the Church, and that has stood him in good stead to attain a degree of advancement that would - in other circumstances - appear almost impossibly quick."

"In some respects, his talent would appear to be incidental - his family connections would have raised him to this height regardless of ability." I do not hide my amused smile; even now, Cromwell struggles to hide his annoyance at the corruption that has infested the Church at the highest levels. Borromeo may live an austere life, but he is the exception - for most Cardinals seem to be hardly lacking in wealth and property. Wolsey was certainly proof of _that_ rule.

"What shall we do next?" I ask.

"I think we should attend one of his sermons." Cromwell says, "If there is ichor present, then we shall know whether our challenge is political - or infernal, and political."

I have not left these walls since our arrival, and it has never occurred to me to do so. In some ways, I have come to rely upon a sense of safety that my enclosure supplies - and I find that the prospect of stepping back out into the world rather more unnerving than exciting. I do not need to look at him to know that Cromwell has noticed.

"I think it is something that you should do, Richie," he says kindly, "You have become too habituated to the protection of these walls - and that is not healthy."

"I know - but…" I almost cannot bear to admit it - for it sounds so womanish, "I am afraid to leave."

Once again, his hand is upon my arm, "I can do this alone - but I would not wish to: not without my faithful Second at my side. It would feel most wrong to me. You know as well as I that true courage is fear mastered, and you have always proved able to master your fears. One more fight?"

I look up at him, and see the faith in his eyes. Faith in me. Yes, I can do it. I can justify his faith…

"One more fight." I nod.

* * *

I have lived within the walls of the House for a scant few months - but already I have become so habituated to it that I have all but forgotten the crowded nature of the streets outside it. God, there are people everywhere, and I am quite convinced that they stare at me, even though the clothing I wear is no different from that of those about me. Indeed, it has been so long since I last wore clothing other than that long tunic that I feel rather strange.

We are making our way to the Church of St Nicholas - a small building tucked into the houses around it - a mile's walk from the House. I can see the grand stonework of the great Duomo - a building that I have not entered at any time - between the houses, but mostly I am keen to ensure that I am not left behind. Cromwell knows these streets - but I do not.

The mass is yet to begin, but the congregation is quite sizeable for so small a place. It seems that my sword was correct in its claim that this man is charismatic - why else would people abandon their work to crowd into this tiny church in the midst of a busy day? Certainly their eagerness as they await him suggests it.

I am gaining no sense of danger - which is comforting to me, for I have become most wary of large crowds since the Kyburg faction attempted to execute me in Luzern. Equally, Cromwell has given no indication that he senses ichor - but then he is yet to see the man that we have come to hear.

When he makes his entrance, dressed in the finest clothing as befits his exalted status, a strange moaning sound seems to emanate from those around me - as though all hunger for his words. That, in itself, is unnerving, for I am unused to such a degree of devotion; but nonetheless there is something about him - his relative youth, and an air of excessive devotion that only just stops short of outright fanaticism. No - this is not a man who would consort with demons. Far from it, in fact.

While I have become much more able to understand - and speak - the tongue spoken by the people of Milan, the speed at which Faraldo speaks is such that I cannot follow him. Cromwell, on the other hand, is clearly taking in every word - though his expression does not reflect the devotion of those around him. For my part, I am wondering whether I am attending Mass, or a political tirade; for I have not yet heard a single word of the Latin service - or any indication that it is to begin.

I do not risk asking Cromwell to aid me in understanding what is being said, for the use of another tongue in this febrile atmosphere would be highly dangerous. I have never been particularly perceptive - but even I can sense the shifting mood of the crowd - as though they are being driven to anger, and encouraged to act upon it. No - this man's danger is most certainly not as a mouthpiece for a demon; it is his own determination to engrave his name upon the consciousness of history. Perhaps he sees the adulation that Borromeo has attracted through his austere way of living, and wishes to surpass it.

But still - there is something that concerns me; for the crowd are hanging on to his every word to a remarkable degree - as though held in thrall. Surely he is not that arresting a speaker? Perhaps there is something here after all; something that is taking advantage of his audience…

Then Cromwell winces, sharply; his hand rising to his head as he squeezes his eyes shut. I know what that means - and it confirms that which is already a suspicion to me. A demon is present.

Fortunately, the crowd is now so wrapt that they seem not to notice as I guide Cromwell aside and we take refuge in a small chantry that is barely more than an alcove, "I can feel it too." I whisper, very softly, "It has just entered, I think - for my sense of the atmosphere changed at the moment you flinched."

"Can you identify it?" he asks, his voice no louder than mine.

"There is no name in my mind." I admit, "It may not be a demon of sufficient strength to warrant a name."

"It is still here; but I am becoming able to set the discomfort aside." He stands away from the wall that he had been leaning against, "I have only my poniards - I could not bring the swords without their being noticed."

"Then if we must fight, I shall call mine." I pause then, as he sets his hand upon my arm and grips it tightly, "What?"

"We are discovered."

Bemused, I turn, and realise that the entire company is now looking at us, their eyes hostile. For a moment, my legs tremble, and I am sure that my knees shall give way, for that hostility is so like the people of Luzern as I was forced to walk amongst them to the stake. But then, Faraldo calls out - though I still struggle to fathom what he says.

To my surprise, Cromwell stands taller, and steps forth. The crowd parts as he approaches them, for his expression is dangerously set, though calm. From what little I understood, I realise that the Cardinal has identified us as members of a House of Heretics, and has demanded that we face him.

I do not hesitate - while my bond with Shadowsight is strong, I need to have it in my hand to truly be able to see that which is hidden, and I mumble the summons just enough to be audible, but not to the point where they are understood. In an instant, the sword is in my hand, and I conceal it under my long cloak as I follow Cromwell out into the nave.

Yes - there it is. I can see it now. I have no idea what it is - but it seems almost like a ghost, wisps of mistiness curling about the Cardinal like a diaphanous veil that obscures his vision, and clouds his judgement. Now and again, a face emerges from that mist - and it is a most beautiful countenance. In that moment, the sword speaks to me again, and I know her name: Lilith.

No, he has not summoned her, nor is he possessed by her - for she does not take possession of men…what was that verse from Proverbs? I read somewhere that it referred to the night-owl…the Lilit… _Lilith_ …

He is speaking again - but I cannot follow the speed of his words. The best guess that I can make is that he is accusing us of sheltering non-believers and Jews. He knows of the House - but then all the Cardinals do. The deception wrought upon him by that misty deceiver has caused him to see us as a danger, not a help. But she cannot deceive me - for I see all things. I have Shadowsight.

And she knows it.

When Cromwell replies, however, he does so at a slower speed, so that I can keep up, "You know nothing of what we are, or what we do. If you wish to know, then I am willing to show you - freely and without restraint."

Again, he speaks far too quickly - but I think I gain a few words that suggest he thinks that we shall take him and shut him away to prevent him from stopping our march of heresy. Oh, for God's sake - when will people stop being so foolish over faith?

Cromwell looks at me, and knows that I have been granted knowledge, "You can see it?"

I nod. I am not deceived, for my sword shows me all things. How, then can I enable all to see her? _"Et pacti Dei sui oblita est inclinata est enim ad mortem domus eius et ad impios semitae ipsius. Omnes qui ingrediuntur ad eam non revertentur nec adprehendent semita vitae."_

She stares at me now, her glorious features creasing into a dangerous snarl - for she knows that I have recognised her. From Cromwell's expression, he knows who she is, too; for he recognises that passage from Proverbs.

"For her house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead. None that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life."

I turn to look at Faraldo again, and his expression is no longer arrogant - for he is as familiar with that except from Proverbs as any - and he is equally aware of the belief that it refers to the demon Lilith.

"Even now, she is upon your shoulder, Eminence." He says.

I recognise his answer - though it is delivered in a trembling voice, "You lie!"

"Your words have attracted her, for she is vengeful - and she seeks to destroy those who stand in her way. The pact exists for a reason, Eminence. Those who come to us do so for what they can do, not the faith that they follow. She cannot harm you, or any other, for she has not the strength. Her power lies in deceit - for she has deceived you, and that deceit infects every word that you speak to those who gather to hear you. Do not let your pride and ambition bring you to disaster."

For a moment, I am convinced that he shall refuse to listen - for that has ever been the response we have received when faced with such a dilemma; but instead his expression becomes ever more unnerved.

"Hide no longer, Lilith!" I hope that they do not think that I am speaking a spell - for none of them understand Hebrew, "Show yourself - and then begone!"

I am not fool enough to think that she would obey me as a mere man - but the voice that speaks is not mine, and it has a power that I entirely lack. Whatever magics the smiths of those far-off Steppes wrought into my sword - they are sufficient to command her, and she must obey.

The wail she utters as she is forced into existence before the gathered throng is horrible - a howl of anger and dismay that she has been discovered. Yet again, the forces of demon-kind have attempted to strike at men, and the Raven and his Second have been present to counter it. I shall certainly ensure that the Archive records her actions, to ensure that we shall recognise it if she tries again in future times.

Now that all can see her, that strange sense of adulation falters almost in an instant - for the people who are gathered see something that they cannot believe to be real. My fear now is that there shall be a panic - and certainly there are a few screams amongst the crowd - but already Faraldo is seeing that it is incumbent upon him to act, for he has created this - and it is for him to end it.

"In the name of Christ, I abjure thee!" He says, firmly, angrily, "Begone demon! In Christ's name, _begone!_ "

She shrieks, wildly, but the mistiness of her form begins to whirl about like charybdis, and in mere moments, she vanishes into nothing.

"Work with us, Eminence. Not against us." Cromwell says, quietly in the silence that follows, "For we are all intent upon the same thing - the protection of men from demon-kind. You have driven a demon from our midst - and thus you are with us in that great war."

Someone nearby calls out something that I do not catch, but he falls to his knees in grateful prayer. Around us, the relief and joy at their apparent deliverance causes others to do the same. Thank God they are looking to the cross on the altar, and the Cardinal standing before it - and no longer at us.

Faraldo is breathing quickly, but his expression is now not one of distrust or hatred - being instead one of astonishment at what he has done. He does not need to know that my exhortation was the order that she obeyed - but as the powers that we invoked came from much the same source, does that matter? People shall speak of a miracle at the Church of St Nicholas - where a Cardinal drove out a demon - and our anonymity shall be preserved.

The congregation are still upon their knees as we slip quietly away, and Faraldo has been both suitably chastened for his foolish challenge to the Pact that hides us, and renewed in his faith at his supposed casting-out of a demon.

"That was rather easier than I expected." Cromwell admits, sounding rather disappointed as we commence the mile-long walk back to the House.

"Indeed." I agree, "Perhaps it is as well, as you did not have your swords. And I was so hoping to hear them sing again."

"Forgive me, Richie." He says, with blatantly false contrition, "It was most remiss of me."

"Do you think that we are safe again?"

"I hope so. Small though that confrontation was, it seems to have drawn our wayward Cardinal back upon the right path again - and that is the best that we could have hoped for."

"I am glad I came with you." I add, "My nervousness was mitigated by the pleasure of the hunt - even if it was only to banish a cloud of mist."

"Fratres in Armis, Richie." He smiles, cheerfully, "Fratres in Armis."

'Brothers in arms'. Yes, very appropriate. How sad that I have given up my coat of arms to my son - I should very much like to have added that as a motto.


	38. Last Gleaming

**A/N:** And so we come to the final chapter of this tale. I don't want to put comments at the end, so I'll do it here. Thank you to everyone who has followed this story from the moment that Rich woke up at Hampton Court and found a new world opening up before him. To my reviewers, thank you again for your kind comments - always much appreciated. While this is the end of this story, I've left plenty of scope for one-shots, so perhaps there may be more tales set in this universe. But for now...

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight

 _Last Gleaming_

I am, once again, in my favourite place - seated at my desk in my study, watching as the snowflakes tumble down to coat the already thickly covered ground of the gardens outside. How long have I been here now? This must be my eighth winter in the House - and my work to establish the Sister House for Seconds has borne such fruit that all of the young men whom we first taught are either alongside a Silver Sword, or installed in the more prominently located Dovecotes. The word that is coming back to me of their work is most complimentary, and I feel quite safe in believing that Sir Thomas More was indeed correct in his suggestion that I might be best situated as a teacher.

It has been an interesting journey, learning the best means of imparting knowledge to the young men who have come into the House all unaware of that other, darker world that lies beneath our daylight existence; and some of those young men who have come to us have struggled to accept that such darkness is truly real - though none have, as of yet, been obliged to visit the Grand Master's study to hear those words that remove their memories of us. For that, I am grateful. We have made errors along the way, of course, which is regrettable - but an error is only a bad thing if one fails to learn from it. We have endeavoured to make sure that we do so, and I think I am safe to say that we have never made the same mistake twice.

Perhaps the strangest thing is the overall quiet that seems to have settled upon us - for no demon of any great rank has attempted to overturn that growing peace in Europe, and even our neighbours to the east in the Ottoman empire seem less willing to demand to expand beyond their established borders, leaving even the most gratuitously bellicose of Princes bereft of anyone to fight. Even the determination of Cardinal Borromeo to expand his counter-reformation seems to have blunted its edge - perhaps a result of Lilith's interference with the preaching of Cardinal Faraldo - for both are excellent examples of truly faithful princes of the Church these days: austere in their manner of living, kindly to those in need and charitable to the destitute. They no longer demand the death of 'heretics' but instead look towards common ground - something that seemed quite impossible a scant few years ago, and I find remarkable even now. While it has been a way of life in the House for generations, tolerance seems to be quite the order of the day beyond our walls; something that I suspect no man either within the order or without could ever have foreseen - which begs the question: how much of the strife that accompanied religious disagreements was caused by the anger of men, compared to the influence of demons looking to instil chaos for their own gain? It is, I fear, impossible to know - and I have whiled away far too many evenings amongst the papers of the Great Archive attempting to find out.

There are sixteen students with us these days, rather than the eight we first admitted, and the recommendations that accompany them from their masters at the Universities that send them have never failed to be correct. I find that I do not have anything like a sufficient amount of time to spend teaching them as I should like - though I have taken steps to ensure that I meet each of them at least once each week. Their outlook is remarkable, and reminds me of my own youth - when I was rather more rambunctious than I should have been, and thought myself immortal. It is always a pleasure to speak to them - unless, of course, they have been misbehaving. Which they do - quite regularly. Such is the way of young men.

I only have to look in the mirror to know that the rejuvenation that I experienced in the light from the Jerusalem Chalice has largely dissipated, for I am quite the greybeard, and those lines and creases upon my skin have deepened again. I do not mourn that lost youth - for there is little benefit in doing so; and to wish myself young again would be to overturn all the latter years of my life - those years when I became a better man, and left behind the vile creature that I had been. Even those darkest days, after my suffering in Luzern, seem but a distant memory that has lost its power to haunt me, and I no longer fall into those frozen reveries that caused my colleagues to send to Cromwell to comfort me. I have not forgotten it, of course - but now I speak of it as I speak of all of those misadventures that I endured as a Second, and the nightmares have long ceased to break my sleep.

Cromwell has delegated all the operations of the Spies to me, alongside the Master of the Spies, who also reports to me - and I am now the first to see all papers that come in from the Dovecotes. Thus the papers before me upon my desk this day are from Cecil, though they were received nearly three weeks past, as I am reviewing prior to archiving them, and they bear excellent tidings in some respects, but sad ones in others. Edward is nineteen now, and Queen Jane stepped aside as Regent on All Saints Day, taking instead the title of Queen Dowager, and giving her son full control of his Kingdom. It was, alas, not a moment too soon, for she took ill a few weeks afterwards, just as Advent was beginning, and passed away mere days before the Christmastide celebration was due to commence. The celebration of the Christ Child was thus most muted, as all mourned her loss - both in the Palace, and across the Realm. Cromwell sent a letter expressing our joint condolence to the King, and we both spent time in the House Chapel to offer up prayers for her soul; and we both shed some tears for her loss. She saved our lives more than once; and, even though we are no longer present at Court, we loved and respected her as our Queen.

Somerset's health is also somewhat precarious, but Prince Hal and the elder Dudley Brothers have rallied round. Northumberland was made Lord Chancellor during the autumn just past, and he has - as we hoped - proved his loyalty to be unimpeachable, while Hal's ongoing development in the arts of diplomacy have enabled him to look to communications with foreign courts during their joint mourning. The two younger Dudley boys have shown a range of useful skills to Edward's government, and continue to learn their craft in the offices that we once oversaw together as Lord Chancellor and Lord Privy Seal.

Infernal activity is at a respectable level - quiet, but not too quiet. Hawk is kept busy, and both he and Cecil keep watch for any threats that might come at them, even though it seems as though no such threat shall ever come again. One of my students, a highly intelligent young man from a minor Palatinate in the midst of Northern Europe who possesses a slight squint but a quick mind, is showing great promise as a suitable successor should Cecil ever opt to retire, and I am hopeful that he shall depart for London next year to complete his apprenticeship in the field. Though I think nothing can possibly prepare him for the fact that he shall have to report as much to Elizabeth as to Dudley.

A knock at the door rouses me from my contemplations, and Peter shows in Cromwell. It is clear that the years have caught up with him just as they have with me - for that greyness has returned, as have the infirmities that caused him such concern before the light from the Jerusalem Chalice rejuvenated us both; and God, he has become shockingly thin. Not that he seems discontented by it, for he smiles with a cheerfulness that I rarely saw when we walked in the precincts of the palace, but that I see here almost constantly.

"Are you ready to turn all upside down, Richie?" He asks, as he seats himself opposite me.

"It shall be most interesting, I think." I admit, "There has - to my knowledge - never been a woman within these walls before; and now one comes to join the Masters."

We lost Bianchi nearly two years ago, and Pelletier came to replace him - but I have been hoping for some time to expand my group of fellow Masters, and the newest shall arrive in two days' time. How far she has come from her days as a chilblain-pocked drudge in the lowest halls of a Palace - for the newest Master to arrive to instruct Seconds is the Lady Margarita de Altamira. I have already set aside an appropriate apartment with sufficient space for her, and for the Marquess Ricardo de Altamira - formerly Dickon Garlant - and I am most keen to meet them after so many years apart.

"Perhaps now we shall be able to expand our searches to include young women - for grand families are beginning to come to value educating their daughters more enthusiastically than they once did." Cromwell adds, "It shall not be easy - for young women of good blood are required to do one thing, and one only: bear sons for a suitable husband." He knows that I have been trying to find female students for nearly five years now, but with no success: for no family seems prepared to permit their daughters to be taught by men.

"If Molly can demonstrate to the young men of this House that a woman can truly be a Second, then that shall be a start." I agree, "For no amount of stories of the brilliance of the Lady Cassandra can resonate quite like the voice of a female Second who is still living." I pause, for I can see that Cromwell is looking rather saddened, "What is it?"

He looks up at me, "Ermine was lost to us a week ago." He sighs, "A Revenant was terrorising villagers in the passes of the Carpathian Mountains, and he was attempting to locate and destroy it. He was ambushed and slaughtered; though Hare was close enough to intervene and prevent the Revenant from infecting Ermine and making him one of the cursed. Thus he was able to restore Ermine's gauntlets and Swords to the House. They shall be delivered from Padua on the morrow."

"The spies are reporting that there are difficulties with revenants in that region more widely, Tom." I add, "I assume that efforts are to be concentrated there for a time?"

He nods, "I have asked Fox, Eagle and Wolf to join Hare and seek out these creatures. The Court Silver Swords have been advised to be vigilant for fear that this might be a feint - though I think it likely that it is not. It is not unknown for Revenants to grow numerous in a region for a time. It has happened before, and we have culled them in response. Thus we shall again."

"There is something else." I add, "I have become far more adept at reading you than once I was. Though I shall not be your equal, I think."

He smiles, briefly, but then his face falls again, "Forgive me, Richie. I had not wished to speak of it to you - but in remaining silent, I have committed a great disservice. During the latter part of the autumn, I began to experience pains in my side that have grown ever worse, and the Physicians have identified that it is caused by a growth of some kind. I think that, in not speaking to you of it, I hoped that it might subside and then I would not have to - furthermore, I did not wish to cast a shadow over our celebrations of Christmastide. But, today, I was advised that the sickness is mortal - and I am not likely to see the spring."

I cannot speak. For a few moments, words will not form, and I stare glassily at him. No; that cannot be. It cannot…it cannot. We were rejuvenated - we were granted life…

"No - that is not so. It cannot be so…" Somehow, the words force themselves out of my mouth.

"I am not afraid, Richie." He says, "No - my sadness is not for myself - but for you, for I knew that this would pain you. I have lived a long life, a good life - and I have achieved great things. I did so with you at my side for so many of those years; and my sadness is not that I must leave it - but that I must leave you behind. My consolation is that it is but for a while - until we are reunited in God's House."

I think that he is attempting to console me - though I know full well that he is not lying in stating that he has no fear of death. All Silver Swords face the prospect of being removed from this life from the moment they wake, to the moment they return to sleep, and I am sure they dream of it just as often. Besides, he has felt that warmth of Heavenly love, and he is more assured than most of what lies ahead when he parts that final veil and departs the mortal world.

Should I be shedding tears? Perhaps I should - but they refuse to rise. The words are in my head, yes - but they are not yet in my heart. Until that occurs, I can imagine that the physicians are being pessimistic - that it is a mere sickness that shall pass when the weather warms. Yes - that is what it is…it has to be.

"I am not felled yet, Richie." Cromwell says, determinedly, "And there is still much to be done. Mourn me when I am gone - not while I am still here. The flesh may be weak, but the spirit is still willing, and thus we shall stand together and face this as we have faced all that has gone before. We have a new Master to welcome, do we not?"

"Indeed we do." I agree, forcing my shock aside. Even if it is but a mere pretence, I can imagine that what I have been told is incorrect. So that is what I shall do.

* * *

We have not seen Molly since she travelled to London with the late Queen Maria of Iberia to attend King Edward's coronation. While she is certainly older, and her hair is also growing grey, she carries those years with a calm dignity that befits an aristocrat. That she is as low-born as Cromwell means nothing in such circles as ours - and her rank of Marquesa is richly deserved. Nonetheless, I still recall the first time that I saw her - thin, scrawny and fearful. Hands reddened with blisters and chilblains, the very mark of the lowest of all servants. It masked her magnificent intelligence - and it was mere chance that we discovered it and were able to release it to fulfil its fullest potential.

Dickon is a tall greybeard not that different from me. He walks with a stick now, but his pride in his wife is not remotely diminished. Their two sons, Thomas and Michael, are both prosperous merchants in the Low Countries these days, as the recent death of King Miguel enabled a number of jealous noblemen to oust those in the court considered to be 'foreigners' before the new King was able to consolidate his hold upon the throne and curb them. As Jackal's retirement had prompted Molly's - and a most capable replacement of Iberian birth was already present to take her place, it was a simple matter to travel away from Iberia, and thus she has come to us. And most welcome she is, too.

I have spent some time preparing the ground for her, teaching our students of the remarkable plan that she and Jackal devised to keep the various court factions under control. If they know that she is a most capable Second in her own right, then they are more likely to treat her with the respect that she deserves. The fact that I trained her shall also help. I hope.

We are supping in Cromwell's inner Parlour tonight, as he is keen to welcome her. He has not spoken again of his illness, and I do not intend to raise the matter either, though I note that he eats almost nothing. The intention is to welcome our new Praeceptor, not complain about our various infirmities.

"Joaquin is proving to be very capable, Magister." Molly reports as Bernhard pours out some claret into her cup, "I have noticed that those young men who are coming from the Sister House are well trained and able to begin work almost immediately. All that is left to complete their learning by the time they enter service is the accumulation of experience."

"I am advised as much myself." Cromwell agrees, "The High that Was, and his predecessor, saw from our experiences the importance and value of a well-trained Second. Wolsey was the first to receive such tuition - and, until recently, he was also the last. I would be proud to consider the work that has been done here to be our greatest legacy. Even greater than all that we did to bring down Lamashtu."

She nods, "I consider my contribution - no matter how small - to have been one of my proudest achievements. It was a true honour to be a part of that great enterprise. Indeed, but for that, I would have lived out my days in a scullery."

"And that," I finish, "Would truly have been a waste."

"What am I to teach, Magister?" she asks me.

"Save that for when we are in front of students, Molly. In private, you are 'Molly' and I am 'Richard'. We are seconds both and - to my mind - therefore equals."

Molly laughs, "What am I to teach, Richard?"

"As you spent so much time in the Library at Grant's Place, I would ask you to impart your knowledge and understanding of Wolsey's index - for I am told that you employed much the same system when you established a similar library in your House at the Alhambra. It is used now in the Great Archive, and a tutor who is well versed in its operation is badly needed. I would have done so myself - but I am much occupied with the operation of the House as an institution, and thus I am not able to spend more than a few short hours in front of our students at most widely spaced intervals."

Dickon looks concerned, "Forgive my question," He says, quietly, "but is it likely that the students shall be less than respectful to her?"

"If they are," Cromwell advises, calmly, "Then they shall discover very quickly that disrespect of a Praeceptor is no more tolerated because that Praeceptor is a woman than it is if the Praeceptor is a man. As it is not possible for you to wear the tunic of a Praeceptor, for it is considered male attire, you shall wear a black gown under your Praeceptor's robes, Molly. You are, in all things, equal to your male colleagues - and any who attempt to suggest otherwise shall be reminded most firmly that they are incorrect. You have earned the right to that respect through your intelligence and skill - and are one of several ladies who have taught me much about the capabilities of a woman."

Molly looks rather quizzical at such a statement, though I know that Cromwell is thinking of his late wife, and of the remarkable Anne Boleyn - both of whom were most intelligent and - to his mind - thus worthy of respect. I think it is safe to say that no Master would treat Molly so - for all of them hold the Lady Cassandra in the highest regard. No, it is the students that might need such reminding; though I hope that they shall not.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, I am relieved to find that my hope is correct. We have all done what we can to lay the ground for our new Master - for I still consider Cassandra to have been a greater Second even than I - and the young men that we teach regard Molly with remarkable respect; for she, unlike they, has served with a Silver Sword in the Court of a King. Besides, her knowledge of Wolsey's Library is rivalled only by Cecil's and mine, and she is more than able to answer any question that is put to her with both confidence and clarity. She is proving, in fact, to be a natural teacher.

In the main House, a young Castilian has won the Ermine blades - though Cromwell was most disappointed that one of the other candidates disregarded his decree that climbing the outside walls to reach the highest tower would no longer be permitted. Fortunately the fool did not fall, but he was seen by one of the patrolling masters, and thus failed on two fronts. Prior to that moment, Cromwell had never been obliged to use that spoken phrase to erase a failed student's memories of the House. He was not at all pleased to have to do so over a failure to obey one of his own rules.

I have not raised the matter of his illness with him since he mentioned it to me prior to Molly's arrival - and he has not raised it either. Consequently, I have managed to put it to the back of my mind, and even tell myself that it is indeed a false diagnosis. While we still dine together, he seems to imbibe nothing more than a few spoonfuls of broth - and grows ever thinner - but still I force myself to think that it is merely a reduction in his appetite owing to his age. He has, after all, almost certainly passed his allotted three score years and ten.

But it is not.

I am supping with my fellow masters, having dined with them today for the first time in years, as Cromwell sent word that he was feeling unwell and did not intend to dine today. Our talk is of the progress of our most talented students, for there are two that are proving to be excellent, and we are engaged in a cheerful argument over whether or not they are ready to be apprenticed in the field.

"I would suggest, in the first instance, the Paris Dovecote for Michael." Pelletier says, "I should have preferred to apprentice him in a Court, but there is no place yet for him."

"In which case is it worth waiting?" Vermeulen muses, "I agree that Michael shall be an excellent Court Second - and experience has taught us now that such a posting requires different skills to those suitable for a Dovecote."

Molly is nodding, clearly in agreement with that assessment.

"What is your opinion, Richard?" Pelletier asks, for we are in private and I have made it clear that use of my title is not welcome in such circumstances.

I open my mouth to reply, but am prevented by a sudden hammering upon the door of my apartments, which Peter hastens to open. Without is the Sword Master, breathing quickly from exertion - for he has clearly been running.

He does not need to speak - there is only one reason why he would have come in such haste. I do not even pause to fetch a cloak, despite the late February chill. Even as I depart, my fellow Seconds are silenced, for they know, as I do, why I have been summoned.

I do not want to go…not into that bedchamber. I know what I shall see within, and I fear it more than I have ever feared anything in my life. He is dying…he is slipping away…and I cannot bear to watch it.

My thoughts continue to race as we arrive at the Grand Master's quarters. The other Masters are all gathered, as is expected, in the outer Parlour, their expressions sad to a man. As was the case with Vaqué, I am granted admittance to the rooms beyond by virtue of my rank of Magister - not that they would have stopped me had I lacked it.

There is one physician, who watches quietly, alongside the Secretary, a new man by the name of Wilhelm who has been there only four years. His eyes are sad, for he has proved as loyal and discreet as Eduardo, and he holds in his hand the leather wallet that contains Cromwell's last wishes. Both men move aside for me, and Wilhelm ushers the physician from the room. He knows that I wish to be alone with the Raven.

God above - how is it that he has weakened so suddenly? We dined but yesterday - and it was only today that he did not wish to dine; though perhaps that was because he was abed, and thought that all he needed was rest. He is still there; propped up a little on several pillows, and looks across at me with a faint smile as I approach. So thin...so hollow cheeked. He has looked that way for some weeks - but until now, I forced myself not to see it, as he was able to walk, and did not look as frail as he does now. He has not the strength to reach out, so I seat myself upon the bed alongside him and take his hand, as he once sat upon a bed alongside me when I was most in need of the comfort of a friend.

"I think it is time, Richie." He says, faintly, "But I am glad that you are here. I should not have liked to go without farewells."

I cannot think of anything to say; but I think he knows it, for he smiles at me, "Wolsey came to me last night in a dream." He continues, "My slate is clean, and I am content to go to God, knowing that he shall welcome me."

"I beg you…do not go." The words are barely audible, for my throat is now so tight with anguish that it is a dreadful effort to speak them at all, "Do not leave me. Please…"

"Were it possible, my dearest friend, I would obey you. Truly I would - but God calls me home now, and His call is the stronger." He pauses, and swallows, a little painfully, "I am glad of the life that I have lived - and the friendship I have shared with you. Did we not have the best of times?"

"I think we did." I agree, my voice still low, "There were times that were unbearable, but they were few in comparison to those that were magnificent." The words end in a slight hiccup as I attempt, vainly, to suppress a weak sob.

"Ah yes," he agrees, "I remember that first fight you witnessed - and the discovery that the victim we had saved was Tom, all unaware of the fate that had been set for him - and how helpful he was to us when first we encountered Zaebos. How it was that he could see that revenant move when all others could not is something I never understood. Have you made a record of it? Perhaps one day one of your scholars shall be able to discover it."

"I shall do so." I promise him, "There is much of our adventuring that is not recorded - and I think that shall be my task henceforth."

"Most assuredly. It would not do for all that we discovered to be lost - for want of being written down. It is a long story - I think perhaps you would be wise to dictate it. It has been many years since you were obliged to write long documents." he chuckles weakly, but then coughs painfully and for a longer time than I should have liked. I attempt to offer him a sip of cordial, but he shakes his head with a slight grimace, "Forgive me, but I am unable to tolerate it - I should not like to spend what little time I have left with my head over a pail."

We talk on - of Wolsey, of More; and of that Titan, King Henry: a man who ruled our lives with his capricious, but iron, will - and who was never a man to be crossed. Only More did not fear his rages - and only Jane truly understood how to manage his temperament. We loved him, and we hated him - but he was our liege Lord, and we served him willingly and to the best of our skill.

Our reminiscences move on to those escapades that we thought so fearsome at the time: my first experience of the sovereign specific, the moment when I first heard the extraordinary music of his raven blades. My humiliating enchanted enslavement by the Lady Midday - and that spellbinding moment when Cromwell became the vessel for the Gemfire to defeat an abomination that would have destroyed us all. Such times...such remarkable times...I think I spent much of them in a state of near terror, though the distance of years has turned those horrors into mere foolish scrapes that give us both cause for amusement, and we both laugh over them.

And then I begin to cry.

"I do not ask you not to mourn, Richie." Cromwell advises as I weep over him, "For I know that I would ask the impossible - as I would mourn for you if our positions were reversed. We are David and Jonathan - and my bond with you has been one of the best things in my life." I am obliged to strain to hear him.

There is enough room to do so, and I lay myself down alongside him, for I know that he is sinking now, "As it has been for me, Thomas Cromwell. You saved my soul as I saved yours - and I shall never forget it."

"As brothers." He says, faintly, sounding very, very tired.

"Brothers." I agree, though again the word fights to escape my narrowed throat.

"I shall pass your regards to Tom."

"I should appreciate that."

"Thank you, Richie."

I want to reply, but he has drifted off to sleep. I rest my head upon the pillows, close to his, and watch in silence as he breathes quietly, and ever less. I remember Henry's ghastly cry in his last moments, before he sank into his final slumber. But there is none of that now. Just peace - until, after an hour or so, he breathes in sharply, just the once - and his last breath leaves him.

I should call someone, I think. But I cannot move - for it is as though he is but sleeping, and I have no wish to wake him. Somewhere behind me, a door opens, and one of the physicians enters. Can he not see that the Grand Master should not be disturbed?

"Magister?" he asks, very quietly.

"Go away." I do not want him here. His presence speaks of a reality that I do not want to face.

"I need to…"

"Get out!" I raise my head a little to shout at him. No - that is not fair, I do not want to wake Cromwell…

To my relief, he flees, and I resume my silent vigil.

I do not know how long I remain there, or even if I sleep, for there is only the dimness of the candles, and I did not see how low they were when I first came here, so I cannot guess how much lower they are now. I remember a time when I lay abed, broken by misery and horrors almost beyond endurance, and he spent so much time watching over me. Now I want to do the same for him. So I shall. I am his Second - to the end…

The door opens again, and I raise my head to demand again that the intruder depart with all haste - but I am silenced, for it is not the physician.

"Richard?" Her steps measured, Molly comes into the chamber, her eyes tearful, "Why are you still here? The physician needs to come in."

"He is not required."

"He is." She answers, softly, "You know he is. He must declare…"

"He can declare what he likes. He is not required."

"The Raven has flown, Richard." She says, "It is time to let him go. You have been here for nearly four hours. The Masters cannot select the successor until you emerge."

"I cannot leave him, Molly." My anger is receding now, as the pain comes forth to take its place, "I cannot do it. If I do, then he is truly gone, and I cannot bear it…he never abandoned me…never, ever. I am his Second…always…"

It is more than I can endure, and the tears that come are prefaced by an anguished wail akin to that which emerged from me when my voice was released after the destruction of Leraje. It hurts. It hurts so much that I cannot move - I can barely even breathe. He is gone. Cromwell is gone. And I am alone…he has left me here all alone…

"Come back!" I am screaming at him now, "Do not dare to leave me! Come back! I cannot be alone! I cannot! Not after all that we did! All that happened to us! Do not _dare_ to leave me, damn you! Come back!"

But, of course, he does not. Instead, I slump over his mortal remains and continue to wail like a wounded child. God alone knows how long I stay there, but eventually I am forced to stop, for there are no tears left in me, and Molly gently persuades me to rise. For now I must accept it, even though I cannot bear to. I must go - for there is nothing left that I can do for my Silver Sword.

Thomas Cromwell is dead.

And I am alone.

* * *

The faces of the Masters are sad, as Molly gently guides me from the bedchamber. They cannot have missed the dreadful noise that I was making in there in the midst of my hopeless anguish - but there is no scorn. They all know that we were closer than brothers. Those who served in the Courts, and worked with Seconds themselves, look at me with greater sympathy still, for they understand my pain.

"He is gone." I manage, eventually; as though they needed me to speak. The Sword Master steps forth to assist Molly in guiding me to a chair, while the remainder offer their condolences - for they are grieving also. I do not want to stay - but equally, I cannot bear to leave. To do so is still an abandonment, and I cannot bring myself to do it. But I must, for the Masters must now choose amongst themselves for a successor, and Wilhelm must pass him the leather wallet that contains the last wishes of the High that Was.

The High that Was. The title granted to the predecessor of the present Grand Master. I used it without thought for Vaqué - but now I must use it for Cromwell. I clench my fists tightly, forcing my nails into my palms. Not now. No - not here. I shall have the rest of my years to mourn, and I shall. But for this time, I must be strong. I must be a Grand Master, and stand in my friend's stead awhile until his successor is appointed.

"Shall we return to your quarters, Richard?" Molly asks, gently, "If you can, I think you should rest."

I doubt that I shall do so - but she is right. I cannot remain here while the Masters deliberate - though I am sure that I shall be summoned to greet a new Grand Master before the new day is out.

"I shall advise my colleagues, Richard." She says, as we walk slowly back to the Sister House, "There is no need for you to do so if you do not wish to."

I am grateful for that. I need privacy; time to reflect upon what has occurred. Even though I knew that it was going to happen, I refused to accept it - and thus I have come to this moment all unprepared. Once returned to my quarters, I retrieve Shadowsight from its mount upon the overmantel of my fireplace, and cradle it in my arms as I wander through to the bedchamber. Quite why I think it shall show me that which I most wish to know, I do not know - for it shows me only what is to pass in the mortal world. Not the world that lies ahead.

He gave me this sword. Presented it to me as a gift at the height of summer while we awaited the birth of a prince and prepared ourselves to protect him with our very lives. It is all that I have left of him now, for his remains are being washed and coffined by others, and I have no place in that procedure. Drained of emotions and utterly exhausted, I sink back upon my bed and allow sleep to claim me. Perhaps I might be fortunate, and follow him into death…

My wish, of course, is not granted - for it is not my place to seek my own end. When I wake, the sun is streaming in through a gap in the thick curtains, and Peter is nearby, "Forgive me, but I have a letter for you. I would not have brought it - but it is from Agnes."

She uses the family seal herself these days, of course. He knows it, and he knows her writing.

My baby daughter is well grown now, and shall soon be taking her first steps into womanhood. I note from her letters that she has grown into an intelligent, thoughtful young woman; with a great facility for languages, as her letters are as often in Latin or French these days as they are in English. She speaks of family, and her lessons - as she always does. She knows nothing of my loss, of course.

Cecil's accompanying letter, however, gives me pause. He, too, does not know that I have been bereaved - but the comments that he makes are not of Cromwell, but are of Agnes, whom he has now met frequently, and talked to on many occasions.

 _I think that it would be a truly lost opportunity if we did not admit Agnes to the House for Seconds. Now that the Lady Altamira is present, there would seem to be fewer obstructions to her doing so. She is most intelligent, Richard - her thirst for knowledge is deep, and her keenness to learn all but limitless. It would be a waste of her talents to lock her away in a marriage to a man who would not accept her sharp mind. Thus I submit to you, as a Serving Second, a prospective Student for your consideration._

God - oh, God, to have her here. With me. Learning to be what I am - the first female Student of the Sister House for Seconds. Of my blood. Cromwell shall…

 _Shall_ …

I droop over the letter with a faint groan, the pain in my chest sudden and sharp. Cromwell shall say nothing - for he is not here. He is dead.

With a mighty effort, I force myself to push it aside and depart from my bedchamber, "Peter, could you call Praeceptor Altamira, please? There is something I wish to discuss with her."

* * *

The air is clear in the Chapel today, when normally it would be thick with incense. Father Fischer knows that the man whom we are committing to God this day would not appreciate a fog that is Popish in origin. Instead, he leads the cortège into the Chapel to the strains of an English hymn that Cromwell particularly appreciated.

The last few days have passed in something of a blur; that quiet calm I felt as I set down the letter and asked Peter to fetch Molly so that I could discuss the possibility of accepting Agnes to my House lasted no more than a day, and I crumbled once again under the burden of my grief. That the Masters had selected a new Grand Master drove home that dreadful truth of my loss, and I was unable even to meet him for three days. Fortunately, he is a kindly, understanding man and has accepted my childish behaviour with sympathy. Thus I was able to make myself participate in his investiture just a day ago - for the new Grand Master is always invested before the old is laid to rest.

While students are buried in the cemetery, Grand Masters are interred in a large vaulted undercroft below the Chapel. Some, however, those who have earned great renown, are laid in tombs in one of the Chantry chapels. This Grand Master shall have one honour that is greater still, for his tomb shall be set in an as-yet unused Chantry - and it shall be his alone. Only one other Chantry has been used so - and that was for Lion, the previous Silver Sword whose blades were retired.

I could not bring myself to deliver a eulogy - a ceremony of funerals in the House that is not reflected in those that I attended in England - so instead the new Grand Master, Demetrios Pavlidis, shall do so. A thick-set man from the shores of the Aegean Sea who once bore the Hare blades, he steps up into the pulpit, and looks to me with a sympathetic smile. As he speaks, I find that my mind cannot settle upon his words - and instead I sink into a quiet reverie, thinking of our work together as Silver Sword and Second - that moment that I made a choice and changed all that I was. All that I could be. Much as my heart aches this day - I would not have had it any differently. I am quite convinced that I should have long since been dead, and labouring in a place of torment far, far away from God's love.

Thank you, Thomas Cromwell. Thank you for saving my life more times than I can remember. For saving my soul. I was a truly dreadful man before the fates brought us into that office at the same time, and I chose to aid you. I do not know how much more time is allotted to me upon this Earth - but I shall live them to the best of my ability in your name, and ensure that no Silver Sword is ever obliged to walk alone…

There is a hand upon mine, and I turn to see Molly, her eyes kind, "The service is at an end, Richard. It is time to lay the coffin within the tomb."

It is painful, deeply painful, to watch as the polished oak coffin is carefully lowered into a vault in the floor of the Chantry. A table tomb shall be built atop it in time - but for now it is an opening in the ground, and this is the last that I shall ever see of the dearest friend I ever knew. Still unable to speak, I reach out to take a handful of earth and cast it into the grave. I think that Fischer is speaking the words of the Requiem Mass, but I do not hear them. Instead, I remain where I am, while the other Masters reach for their handfuls of earth, then carefully step around me to cast them alongside mine. Indeed, I stay there long after everyone else has departed, and the sexton is waiting for me to go so that he can close the grave. But still, I cannot move - for, once I do so, I shall be utterly alone...

"Poppa?"

Slowly, I raise my head. How long has it been since I last heard that? How is it that I am hearing it now? I must be imagining it, but I turn - and see a young woman in a rather dusty travelling gown standing alongside the Hawk. Robert Dudley has returned to the House to escort my daughter here. Even though I had not answered Cecil's letter, she has still come.

"Agnes?" Why am I asking? It can be no one other than she. Who else would call me 'poppa'?

She does not speak, but comes to me, as I hold out my arms and enfold them about her. Did she know? Did she guess that to see her now is the only real balm that can ease my bleeding heart?

"I am truly sorry for your loss, Magister." Hawk says, quietly, "Our journey was undertaken in the belief that you would not refuse Cecil's recommendation - though I think it was the Lady's insistence that sealed the decision. Had we known that you were facing a loss as great as this, then we would have left sooner. I took it upon myself to escort her personally, as we are well known to one another, and I had no wish for her to be escorted by a stranger. Equally, I must confess that I had hoped to speak again with Magister Cromwell before returning to London - though I am saddened that that is not to be."

"You are here now." I mumble into Agnes's hair as I hold her tightly, "And I am more grateful than you can know that you have brought my daughter to me."

"I came to learn, Father." She says, her voice muffled in my robes, "Though if that is not to be, then I shall instead remain here and see to your welfare and comfort."

I look up to see that Hawk is shaking his head, "Do not allow her to do that, Magister. She has a true gift for learning and research - Cecil recognised it and did what he could to nurture it. The Lady Altamira must be most keen to admit female students - and Madame Rich would be ideally placed to be the first such student."

Now that she is here, I find that I am able to be led away from the vault - though I am unable to stop myself from looking back it several times before I consent to depart. He was my friend. My dearest friend and a man to whom I could give my truest loyalty and love. I shall never forget him - even if I must remain on this Earth for ten years or more. I promised him that I would record all that we did, so that his exploits would never be forgotten - and so I shall. He laid a duty upon me. A duty to be his Second - and I shall not waver from it. Though he is no longer by my side, I shall still give him cause to be proud of me.

For I am the Second to the Raven.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

* * *

 **MEMORANDUM**

 _ **To:**_ Praeceptor Kemény, Master of Historic Studies _  
_

 _ **From:**_ David Moreau, Lead Archivist

 _ **Extension:**_ 65779

 _ **Date:**_ 13 September 1976

Further to your query, please see attached historical summaries and documentation pertaining to Magister Thomas Cromwell, the last to hold the blades of the Raven. The larger texts concerning his life are available for perusal on microfiche, and the relevant files will be brought to your study later today. I have booked out the reader for you, and that will be delivered at the same time.

Please note that the documents have not been transcribed from the original Secretary hand, and have not been paraphrased into modern English. Translations are under way, but are not yet complete. If you require assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me. My extension number is noted above.

D. Moreau

* * *

 **Catalogue number:** DXW-539572-XZ-99199

 **Record date:** 12 October 1957

 **Subject:** Records of the House - 1560: Summary

15 February: Grand Master Cromwell dies of (presumed) Pancreatic Cancer.

22 February: Master Cromwell interred in the Chapel of St Michael the Archangel. By the Decree of Grand Master Pavlidis, the Chapel is to be set aside as a permanent memorial. The retired 'Raven' blades are mounted beneath the portrait of Cromwell as the High that Was.

15 March: Admission of first female student to the House of Seconds. Miss Agnes Rich enters under the sponsorship of the Second to the Hawk, Sir William Cecil, 1st Baron Burleigh, KG.

17 June: Bull retires to the House to assume the vacant post of Praeceptor.

5 August: Bull blades won. New Bull enters the Habsburg Court in the service of the Holy Roman Emperor.

* * *

 **Catalogue number:** DXW-539572-XZ-99202

 **Record date:** 12 October 1957

 **Subject:** Records of the House - 1563: Summary

20 March: Outbreak of Plague in Milan. Students and Faculty of both Houses evacuated to Padua.

14 May: Plague subsides. House reopens.

31 August: First female student, Agnes Rich, passes all tests and examinations with distinction. Declines immediate posting to the Great Archive prior to a Court post becoming available in order to assist Grand Master Rich with assembling a written record of the life of the Raven. Posting thus deferred until the project is completed.

23 November: Jackal Blades returned to the House. Former Jackal retires to open first Duiventil in the Levant, located in the city of al-Salt within the Ottoman Empire.

13 December: Lady Margarita de Altamira dies suddenly of an unidentified complaint, likely to be an aneurism.

* * *

 **Catalogue number:** DXW-539573-XJ-76162

 **Record date:** 12 October 1567

 **Note:** Written letter from Agnes Rich to William Cecil: Second to the Hawk

 _My dear friend, William._

 _I write with a heavy heart to advise you of the recent passing of my father, Richard Rich; Grand Master of the House of Seconds and the Second to the Raven._

 _I was with him at the end, and thus was tasked with ensuring that his final wishes were acted upon. His passing was peaceful, and we were granted the opportunity to spend time together as he awaited his time. He was not taken ill, but instead the weight of years pressed upon him until the weight was too heavy for him to continue to bear._

 _We talked often of his younger days, when he first took up the burden of a Second; and he spoke of his adventures with the late Grand Master Cromwell. I think that he was determined to ensure that the written records we had produced were as complete as he could make them, for he remembered incidents that he had previously failed to mention, and thus I added them to that which had already been prepared. Perhaps I shall add my own reminiscences of my years in this House - though I think that is a tale for another time._

 _It was found that Grand Master Cromwell had decreed that, when my father's time came, he would be laid to rest in the same chapel - and it was also my father's wish that this be so. Thus, he was interred alongside the mortal remains of his Silver Sword, and an equal table tomb has been commissioned to match that of the man with whom he has been reunited in God._

 _In the weeks that have followed, I have laboured long, and - I must admit - with many tears, to bring together my father's reminiscences of his days at the Court of Henry - both those that we had initially prepared, and those that I wrote as we talked together in his last days. Furthermore, the scribes in the Archive have worked with patience and care to create a fair copy of those reminiscences to be handed to you for inclusion in the Library at Grant's Place. I hope that you shall read them, for they tell of the destruction of the demoness Lamashtu in most remarkable terms, and in reading them, I found myself close to my father again._

 _It has been arranged that his sword, and that of the late Thomas Wyatt, shall be mounted below a portrait of him that shall be set in the Hall of the Masters opposite the portrait of Grand Master Cromwell, so they are even now together upon the earth as they are in Heaven. Father used to joke to me that he looked forward to being reunited with his former mentor, Thomas Wolsey, and I pray that this is so._

 _Now that my work within the Archive is done, I am to transfer from Milan to Brugge, where I shall begin work alongside the Second to the Hare prior to assuming the post myself in due time. I view this with anticipation and fear in equal measure - but I am sure that my father is watching me from Heaven, my mother at his side, and is pleased to know that I shall follow where once he stepped. I think he had hoped that, as I was of his blood, his sword would hear my voice as it heard his - but, though he taught me the words that summoned it, it would not hear me._

 _It is my great hope that, as they were brothers in this world, now they are brothers in the next - and I pray that they are sharing in that Heavenly reward in return for their struggles and triumphs. I am truly glad that I was granted the opportunity to come to know my father - for I saw him but little in my childhood - and I shall always be grateful to you for ensuring that my childish words were passed to him in the years after he departed England._

 _Again, I urge you to read the papers that I have dispatched to you - for they shall serve both as a reminiscence of one of the most celebrated of Silver Swords, and the most celebrated of Seconds, and as an instructive text for those who shall study for years to come. While my father is no longer alive, his words are set down for all to read - and shall serve, I think, as a fitting memorial for a man who made a choice that saved his soul._

 _Yours with friendship,_

 _Agnes Rich._


End file.
